


Hollow Crown

by ShyAFWriter



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Gen, Kings AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 41,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyAFWriter/pseuds/ShyAFWriter
Summary: Two men lay claim to the throne of Acheon. The kingdom's fragile peace is about to shatter once again and the next generation of nobles will be forced to suffer the consequences and shape the future. And in all of this, the bastard son of a duke just wants to find his place in the world.Update 14/10/2020: Please read my note at the beginning of chapter 1. My immediate response to the RH situation can be found in chapter 21.  Chapter 22 explains what would have happened from the events of chapter 20 up until the end of that character's plotline.Also, regarding Lindsay's recently announced gender identity - I'm currently working out how to respect their wishes and work it into this fic, since the medieval setting makes it somewhat more difficult to achieve than in my other two fics. At the moment, Lindsay's character has she/her pronouns and female titles; this may or may not change in the future but either way please be aware it is not my intention to cause any disrespect to them.
Comments: 74
Kudos: 33





	1. Background

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a bit of a Kings AU while I had writer's block with my other two works. I did promise I would share it soon, but the first chapter isn't quite ready yet. Rather, I thought I would share the world's background first. The first 'real' chapter should hopefully be coming in the next few days if I find the time to edit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT UPDATE 14/10/2020:
> 
> This fic was first published months before the actions of R**n H*****d came to light. The last chapter to be published before this is chapter 20. Before this, his character was a huge part of this fic, and unfortunately the character cannot so easily be removed. I debated discontinuing the fic (as I mentioned in chapter 21), but then decided to reclaim my work and my character and continue from a point further ahead in the story. As such, chapter 22 explains much of the plot in a summary format, rather than it all being written out. I apologise for this.
> 
> After watching the stream today where Jack and Michael made their statements on the matter, I realised I couldn't stand to let his name stain my work any longer, and Jack and Michael made it very clear that they and the rest of AH want absolutely nothing to do with him. I'm assuming that extends to fanficton. As such, that character has been renamed and is now an OC. It is not an ideal situation, I know. Older readers will know that the character used to be him and even without this note it is probably obvious to new readers, given that this character is the only major OC in any of my fics. But it is the best I can do for now. My petty reasoning for the name picked can be found in the notes at the end of chapter 21 if anyone is interested.

The World

Acheon – a kingdom on its own landmass, ruled primarily by Mortimers since the conquest.  
Wynrun – the capital city.  
Sureon – the southern-most major county, ruled by the Collins family.  
Solpeak – the capital of Sureon and home of the Collinses.  
Norte – the northern-most major county, ruled by the Dooley family.  
Jorven – the capital of Norte and home of the Dooleys.  
Veshire – the western-most major county, ruled by the Jones family.  
Verun – the capital of Veshire and home of the Joneses.  
Austur – the eastern-most major county, ruled by the Free family.  
Whiteport – the capital of Austur and home of the Frees.

King Geoffrey Ramsey (b. 557 NE)  
Geoffrey was born to the throne of Acheon after his father won it by conquest. Geoffrey inherited the throne after his father’s death in 574 NE. So far, Geoffrey’s rule, while short, has been prosperous, and in 576-577 NE he led a successful crusade on the continent where he won land he gifted to landless supporters and cousins, producing many small duchies and kingdoms loyal to but not formally belonging to Acheon.

Jack Pattillo, Lord Treasurer (b. 558 NE)  
Jack was a highborn commoner whose family acquired enough money to pay for an extensive education for Jack. He was a talented scholar, and his achievements were noticed by the young king Geoffrey. He was promoted to his position shortly after Geoffrey’s coronation, and acts as a primary advisor to the king.

Henry Mortimer (b. 560 NE)  
The grandson of the deposed ‘old king’, Henry was born and raised in exile on the continent. His whole life he has been preparing for the invasion of Acheon to reclaim his family’s lost throne. After his father’s death in 582 NE, Henry became the heir of the Mortimer house and the only remaining rival claimant to the throne.

Michael Jones, heir to the Duchy of Veshire (b. 574 NE)  
Michael was born to the duke of the western lands and his duchess. The Jones house were staunch supporters of Ramsey house and Michael’s grandfather was key to securing the throne for Geoffrey’s father.

Gavin Free, heir to the Duchy of Austur (b. 575 NE)  
Gavin was born as the heir to the most wealthy duchy in the kingdom. His family are staunch Ramsey supporters and won their seat during the Ramsey invasion. The Free house holds a rivalry with the Jones house.

Jeremy Dooley, heir to the Duchy of Norte (b. 577 NE)  
Jeremy’s family have held their duchy for centuries. They were able to retain their seat due to a last-minute switch of allegiance during the Ramsey invasion that many claim was the reason for its success. Since then, the Dooleys have proven themselves loyal subjects of the Ramseys and Jeremy is expected to inherit vast estates and power.

Trevor Collins, heir to the Duchy of the Sureon (b. 578 NE)  
Due to a feud between the Collins house and the old Mortimer kings, Trevor’s grandfather was the first Acheon noble to declare support for the Ramsey house. As a result of this, the Collins house are held in high esteem at the Ramsey court. Trevor’s father was also a major player in Geoffrey’s crusade on the continent. As such, Trevor stands to inherit great power and influence within the kingdom.

Alfredo Diaz (b. 577 NE)  
Alfredo was born to Duke Collins and a mistress he took during Geoffrey’s crusade on the continent. Lacking an heir, the duke brought his bastard son back to Acheon. Alfredo’s half-brother Trevor Collins was born just a year after they returned and Alfredo was stripped of any claim to the lands, but allowed to remain within the Collins household.

Matt Bragg (b. 576 NE)  
Matt’s family live in exile with the Mortimer house after their lands were stripped by Geoffrey’s father after his invasion. The Bragg house was a small house but have proven to be staunchly loyal to the Mortimer house. Matt, the sole heir, holds a close sibling-like relationship with the Mortimer heir Henry.


	2. The Fall of Solpeak

**583 NE**

The shouts and clamouring of feet outside is almost deafening. Trevor didn’t see what was happening before they shoved him into the wardrobe and told him to stay quiet no matter what, but the bells of Solpeak were ringing, and not for good news.

He clutches his brother’s hand tighter and tries to peak through the slit between the doors. He sees nothing other than maids rushing around his bedroom, closing the windows.

“Fredo, what’s happening?” Trevor whispers.

Strictly speaking, Alfredo and Trevor are not brothers, but half-brothers, though they are as inseparable as true brothers. Alfredo is one year older than Trevor, and their father claims he ‘found him’ while on campaign beside King Geoffrey on the continent. Duchess Collins graciously allowed him to stay, provided that he did not take the family name or birth-right after the birth of a trueborn son.

Almost a year after their father returned with Alfredo, Trevor was born. As the heir apparent to the duchy, Trevor is showered with attention and care that Alfredo never was or expects to be. Both of them are too young to understand why, but Alfredo loves his brother and understands there is a great future ahead of Trevor as duke, and he knows that his place is beside him.

“I don’t know,” Alfredo admits. “Father will come for us soon, I’m sure.”

“Is it bad? Fredo, are we under attack?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who would want to attack Father?”

“Shush, Trev. They told us to stay quiet.”

Trevor peaks out of the slit again, watching a now empty room. The shouts still continue, though he can’t make many of them out. The bells still ring, as loud as ever. There are enough men shouting outside that it sounds like a war is raging.

Some time passes before he hears his mother’s voice. She bursts into the room crying Trevor’s name, and Trevor rushes out to her. He sees the fear in her eyes as he grabs her hands; it’s the first time he’s ever seen fear in his mother. Normally she was steely, a woman who others cowered before, but never her. Not for anything.

“Mother, what’s happening?” Trevor asks with a shaking voice.

Duchess Collins shakes her head and blinks back tears. She releases her son and rushes to the wardrobe, shoving Alfredo out beside his brother. She digs two outfits out and shoves them in the boys’ hands. “Get changed, now, both of you! We need to go!”

Alfredo regards the clothes in his hands. They’re grander than anything he’s ever been allowed to wear all his life, with fine embroidery and a blue cloak to match. “But… these look like Trevor’s clothes.”

“And these look like a commoner’s!” Trevor objects.

“Change! Now!” Duchess Collins demands.

“Sorry Mother!” Trevor squeaks. He and Alfredo change as quickly as they can while Trevor’s mother paces, peering out of the window’s shutters repeatedly.

Alfredo takes far longer to change, in part due to the complexity of the outfit, but also because he was unsure about it. Duchess Collins’ patience snaps eventually, and while Alfredo positions the travelling cloak around his shoulders, she grabs it and fastens it at his neck herself before shoving the hood over his head. “Come on, boys! Quickly!”

Duchess Collins takes both of their hands and half leads, half drags them out of the room and down to the courtyard. Before they leave, Duchess Collins hides Trevor behind a wall and kneels before him. “Listen to me and listen carefully. You stay here, you wait for me, understand? No one else, not even somebody you know. Do you understand, Trevor?”

“I do. But Mother…!”

“Wait here!” she says before taking Alfredo’s hand. “Come, Diaz.”

Trevor can hardly see Alfredo’s face beneath the cloak’s hood, but he knows he looked towards him, perhaps even intended to say something before his mother pulled him away.

From his hiding spot, he watches his mother rush Alfredo to a carriage in the centre of the courtyard. She lifts him in, takes his face in her hands and speaks with him. Trevor doesn’t hear her, but he can only imagine they’re stern instructions. Then, in a move that both bemuses and delights Trevor, she kisses Alfredo’s forehead.

When she releases him, she closes the carriage door and scurries back inside. The carriage pulls away immediately, and Duchess Collins watches at the door until it is gone from her sight.

Only then does she turn to her son. “Where’s Fredo going?” Trevor asks.

“Not now, honey, come on. We need to get you out of here,” she says, lifting him in her arms. She begins to hurry down the corridor with him towards the eastern side of the castle.

“Where are we going?”

“You are going on a boat, Trevor, and it’s going to take you someplace safe. There’s a man waiting there for you, and he’s going to take care of you until I find you again.”

“You’re not coming with me? Is Father?”

“Don’t worry about your father for now, Trevor. We will talk about him when I see you again.”

“Who are we fighting, Mother? I’m confused!”

The Duchess halts abruptly, kneels to her son’s eye-level and places her hands on his cheeks. “My boy,” she says with a trembling smile. “You’re going to go through this door here, see, and there’s stairs behind it. They’ll take you down to the river eventually. It will be dark – you’ll have to feel your way down – but no one will find you. Be quick! Once you reach the river, find the man with the small boat that doesn’t have our sigil. Go with him, he will take you to safety.”

“What about you?”

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me, and don’t be afraid. Never forget who you are, Trevor. You will be Duke of Sureon one day. The sun will shine on us again. Now go.”

Alfredo clings to his seat as the carriage surges onwards. The horses must be galloping, and it doesn’t make for a comfortable or soothing ride.

It doesn’t get any more relaxing when he hears other horses and men shouting behind him. A sword slashes at the wall and very nearly breaks through. Alfredo has to stifle a scream. Then, the carriage falters and topples to the left. Alfredo falls hard, but crawls to his feet and scrambles back as swords continue to swing down on an already weakened wall. The door above him explodes inwards, and foreign soldiers reach in and drag him out.

They throw him onto the road, laughing and cheering. Alfredo searches desperately for any possible support, but the carriage driver is dead, and the road is empty save for him and the soldiers.

“Ladies, might I present to you the little lord,” one of the men shouts before he cackles. Alfredo crawls backwards, but halts when a blade meets the back of his neck. He stares in horror before him, not daring to look back at the man who will execute him. He shudders visibly with his fear, but does his best not to let tears fall.

“Go on, kid. It’s alright. Cry for your mother.”

Alfredo’s voice quivers as he says: “I don’t have a mother.”

That halts the laughter, and the man with the swords asks, “What was that?”

“I… don’t have a mother…”

There’s a pause as the men look to each other. Alfredo dares to glance at one of them, and he scowls and approaches quickly, snatching Alfredo’s jaw and forcing his head up to get a better look at his face. Alfredo glares back defiantly, until he’s thrown to the ground.

“Idiots! This is the bastard! That bitch tricked us! Get back and find that damn heir! Kill every boy matching the description you see!”

“And this one?” the man who had held the sword to Alfredo’s neck asks. “Kill him?”

“No. Take him to the king. The bastard probably knows something.”


	3. A New Era

The capital city, Wynrun, was teeming with life when they arrived. The common-folk had come out in their thousands for a glimpse at their new king and his foreign supporters.

Matthew Bragg had rode into the city beside his mother, ready to rejoin with his father and the new king after their glorious conquest. The palace was situated on the southern side of the river that divided Wynrun and Acheon, and it was the largest structure he had ever seen. His mother informed him it was built by Henry’s ancestor, and was only meant to intimidate enemies of the Mortimers.

Earl Bragg, Matt’s father, joins them in the courtyard. He lifts Matt down from his horse and hugs his son tightly. “Did we do it?” Matt asks. “Is Henry really the king?”

Earl Bragg chuckles and nods his head. “He is.”

“And hopefully he cleans up around here,” the countess says. “So far I prefer the continent.”

“If you have any grievances with his kingdom, I’m sure the king would be intrigued to hear it,” the earl jibes. He guides Matt on towards the palace. “Come on, let’s go see the king.”

The Braggs find Henry inspecting the throne room. When he turns to see who disturbed him, he beams. Young Matt runs from his father’s side towards Henry the moment he sees him. “Ry!”

The king kneels to his level and the boy crashes into his arms. “Hey Matthew,” he chuckles. “How was the trip over? Calm seas?”

“Yeah, Mother wouldn’t let us sail unless it was safe. So you’re the king now?!”

“I suppose I am,” Henry says.

“So I can be an earl like Father now?”

Henry laughs again. “You’ll inherit everything your father has when you’re older. But perhaps I can be persuaded to give you some land in the meantime – you’ll need to learn how to rule before you become one of the greatest lords in Acheon.”

“That’s…!”

“Enough, Matthew,” his mother commands, pulling him from the king. “The king has important matters to discuss.”

“More important that Matt’s lands?” Henry says, smiling at the child.

As the earl approaches, Henry rises and hugs the man. “Thank you,” he tells him.

“It was my duty and my pleasure, your grace,” Earl Bragg says.

Henry’s smile fades and his voice turns stern and low, too low and quiet for Matt to hear. “The Collins family?”

“The duke and duchess are dead, your grace. My men saw to that, and I saw the bodies myself.”

“And the heir? Trevor Collins?”

The earl’s face grows pale. “He… My men are searching for him, your grace. We will find him and snuff him out. We did, however, capture the duke’s bastard son. He’s been brought here for questioning. The boy may know where the heir is.”

The king nods. “Nasty work,” he murmurs, “But it had to be done. Cook tells me that the Dooleys surrendered. They’ve been arrested and are on their way. Free and Jones were here in the capital. They were arrested in their rooms along with their families – we have them in the dungeons now. Have the child brought to the dungeons with them; we will see to them tomorrow when Cook arrives.”

Alfredo sits with his knees tucked to his chest in the corner of the cell. They dumped him there several hours ago, after a two day ride to the capital as a captive. When he arrived at this new, foreign place, he expected to find men loyal to the king that perhaps he could explain to. Maybe even King Geoffrey would listen to him and have him sent home to his father. What he found instead, however, was a city filled with the same unfamiliar soldiers that had captured him. Geoffrey and his men were nowhere in sight.

The cell they threw him in was crowded. Nobles from all over the country were locked up with him. Some he recognised from visiting his father’s court. Others were strangers with familiar names.

It is almost evening before the nobles acknowledge him. “Diaz boy! Where’s your father?” Duke Jones shouts to him. The Duke Jones ruled the westernmost major county, Veshire, and while he was not a face Alfredo recognised, his fiery reputation preceded him.

The other prisoners turn to the child in the corner, still wrapped in the Collins’ burgundy cloak. Attention was never something he had gotten used to, especially not from nobles. Trevor’s mother had taught him never to speak around a noble unless called upon, and why would they call upon him?

Alfredo pulls at his cloak uncomfortably as he says, “I don’t know, my lord.”

“And your brother? Trevor Collins? Where is he?”

Alfredo shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“That boy is dead,” Duke Free of Austur says.

Alfredo raises his head, forgetting the tear streaks on his cheeks he’d been attempting to hide. “Trevor isn’t dead,” he protests.

“They gave the order to slaughter the Collins household. Why they spared the bastard, I don’t know, but the Collins were woefully underprepared for a siege on this scale.”

“He isn’t dead!” Alfredo shouts. Damn manners, this lord dared to imply the impossible.

“Quiet down, Free,” a noble woman says as she kneels before Alfredo and pulls him under her arm for comfort. “Upsetting the boy won’t do us any favours.”

Jones snorts. “Nothing will do us any favours now. The Mortimers are damn tyrants.”

“Whose mercy we all now rely upon. And we would all do well to remember that, Jones.”


	4. Judgement

Their judgement comes the next morning at dawn. The nobles were taken from their cells by men wearing the same unfamiliar uniform as those that had almost killed Alfredo. They were marched through the palace to the grand throne room, where they were each forced to kneel in the corner closest to the throne and now wait.

The rest of the room is filled with men Alfredo has never seen before. They are dressed in strange fashions, and wear strange hats, and none of them even look in the direction of the country’s great nobles.

The strange people rise and applaud suddenly, and a tall young man with blonde locks and bright blue eyes strides through them towards the throne. He wears robes fit for a king, with a long red and gold cloak hanging from his shoulders. And on his head, the crown.

“That’s not King Geoffrey,” Alfredo whines to the boy beside him – the son and heir of Duke Dooley.

“He’s the new king,” Dooley explains, “And he thinks we’re all traitors.”

“No! No! I’m no traitor! I never did anything! We’re loyal! Father, and Trevor and I, we’re all loyal!”

“To the old king! That’s the problem, Diaz.”

The imposter king sits on his throne, gestures for silence, and his eyes flicker to the old nobles. He smirks and calls, “Duke Free of Austur, and his heir!”

There’s shuffling, and timidly the duke steps forward until he stands before the throne. Trailing behind him, a slim boy not many years older than Alfredo. He looks truly terrified.

“Duke Free, do you understand that you are accused of treason against your king?”

The duke steels himself and says, “I know why I’m here.”

“Do you pledge fealty to me and my heirs after me?”

The duke glares, but ultimately has no choice in the matter. “I do,” he declares through clenched teeth.

“And your son?” the king asks as he turns his attention to the boy. The Free heir looks up in shock, shuddering. His mouth is clamped shut by his fear. The king tilts his head in expectation.

The duke kneels to his son and says softly, “Gavin, pledge fealty to the new king.”

Gavin nods slowly.

“Say it,” the king demands.

“I… I pledge fealty.”

The king sits back, satisfied. “The Free lands south of the river Lyrr are confiscated and hereby bestowed to the Cook house for their loyalty to me.” The king waves them on, and his eyes dart around the other imprisoned nobles. “Jones.”

The Duke of Veshire steps before the king. He scowls, and he does not bow. He stares defiantly at the king.

“Your heir?” the king asks.

“Don’t move, Michael,” the duke demands. His son shifts uncomfortably but ultimately obeys his father. “We Joneses do not bow to Mortimers.”

The king sits back. After a few moments of consideration, he laughs. “Brave words. I take it your lordship will not be pledging fealty, in that case? You are on trial for treason, Jones.”

“I served my king, and that’s all I’ve ever done. If I must die, I die with a clear conscience. Can you say the same?”

The king’s smile fades. “Veshire, I find you guilty of treason and I sentence you to death.”

“NO!” his duchess cries, scrambling towards the duke. Guards grab her and her son Michael before either can reach the duke, who is dragged from the room.

“Father!” Michael calls to him.

“You will never be king, Mortimer! Not in the eyes of Acheon!” the duke shouts back. He hurls insults and curses until the doors slam on him, leaving the throne room almost silent but for the sobbing of the duchess.

When the king’s eyes turn on her and her son, she instantly drops to her knees and clutches her son’s hand. “Your grace, we pledge fealty. Please, my boy is innocent. He’s not yet reached his nineth year. Spare him, I beg of you.”

The king holds a hand up to end her blubbering and locks eyes with her terrified son. “You pledge fealty to me, Michael Jones?”

“I do,” Michael stutters.

The king nods. “You will inherit your father’s title and most of his lands. Veshire will pay double the tax for ten years for your father’s insults towards the crown. Until you come of age I will leave my trusted supporter Cook as protector, and when the time comes, Michael, you will marry my choice. Is this clear?”

The boy nods and the king waves them on. “NEXT!”

Alfredo watches as noble house after noble house is made to declare fealty and their lands are confiscated in favour of new houses. He is one of the last to be called up, and when he is, he steps before the king with slow, shaky movements. He kneels at the steps to the throne and gradually musters the courage to look up at the king.

The king regards him for a moment, and Alfredo has never felt so vulnerable in his life. “Your father is dead,” the king says. Alfredo gulps but holds himself together. “Your step-mother too; their bodies were recovered by my men. Duchess Collins sent you out dressed as the heir to fool my men, meaning the true Collins heir was spirited away. I’ll ask this once – where is Trevor Collins?”

Alfredo clutches the clasp on his cloak. “My brother is dead, my lord.”

The king narrows his eyes. “And you know this how?”

“The other nobles, they told me so. My brother is dead…”

“And if your brother is dead, does that not make you the heir to the duchy?”

Alfredo shakes his head quickly. “I don’t want to be duke! I’m not a Collins! I… I just want my brother back!”

The king ponders for a long time. He smiles a genuinely humoured smile eventually. “If you were put in your brother’s place as bait, Duchess Collins clearly didn’t care much for you, did she? I suppose that’s the best way to punish the Collins House then. Diaz, you will be raised here at my court. And when you’re older, I’ll make certain you do well under me, provided that you are loyal to the crown. In the meantime, I suppose I have a duchy to give away.”


	5. The New King's Justice

There is a chill hanging over the hill on this morning. It is a cold Henry will have to get used to, he thinks. Most of Acheon did not hold the same reputation for long, warm days that the places of his exile on the continent did.

He was followed to his seat overlooking the scaffold by his closest advisors and supporters. Closest behind him was the newly appointed Duke Bragg of Sureon, walking far ahead of the other once great dukes of the kingdom. His son was not with him today though – Henry decided to spare Matt the horror of politics for a few years longer.

As for his other new wards, he had offered them a seat. The Dooley heir and the Collins bastard sank away at the very mention of the event and opted to stay with Matt instead, and Gavin Free’s answer was given by his father – a staunch ‘no’. Michael Jones, however, had little choice, and marched behind his mother towards the back of Henry’s train.

Many commoners stood around the scaffold by the time Henry arrived and seated himself. Many, he presumed, had stood around for hours for a good view, not just to see one of the most significant executions of their lifetime, but also for a peak at their new king. When they looked upon him, Henry wondered what they saw. A young and handsome prince restored, or a bloodthirsty usurper?

His nobles seat themselves around him, and Henry can’t help but glance in the direction of Duke Free. He and Jones had a rivalry that was close to legendary. Was seeing Jones brought so low any consolation to Free, even after all Henry had taken from him? The king couldn’t tell – Free kept a stone-cold gaze on the scaffold. That is where Henry directed his own eyes for the time being also – mostly to avoid his eyes wandering over to where the soon-to-be Dowager Duchess of Veshire and her son sat. While Henry may win over the children of the other defeated nobles in time, he knew that no matter what, from this day, Michael Jones would loathe him, and in little more than a decade he would be old enough to do something about it. Henry would have to watch him closely.

The prisoner, the disgraced Duke of Veshire, is led onto the hill by four armed guards shoving through the crowd. The common people shout as he passes them, but Henry cannot make out what they say, or whether they call out to him in support or mockery. Either way, the duke keeps his head down, deaf to those around him. Not until he stands on the scaffold does he look up to where the king and his peers sit.

Henry rises, and when he does the crowd falls deathly silent. “Jones,” Henry calls to the prisoner, “You may address the people one final time.”

The duke steels himself and stares the king down. For a painstakingly long time, he makes no noise, as if to prove to the king that he does not take orders from him – he will speak when he pleases on his own terms. When he does finally speak it is not to the people but directly to the king.

“I would denounce you, Mortimer, but I can’t be certain my son won’t follow me to death. He wouldn’t be the first child whose death blackens your conscience.”

Henry raises his head at the gasp that runs through the crowd. The rumours from Sureon must not have reached the capital’s population yet. Still, he remains silent. Every man condemned to death has the right to speak.

“But what does it matter? You’ll kill him anyway if it pleases you. You will never be king,” Jones announces. “Never more than a pretender. The true king lives, and one day he will return and take everything from you as you have taken everything from me. One day, your head will lie on this same block and your blood will stain these same planks. Know this, Mortimer, for you know it is true. I hope it haunts your dreams until the day finally arrives.”

“We can silence him, your grace,” Bragg whispers in the king’s ear.

“No,” Henry says shortly.

Jones turns to the crowd. “I die a faithful and loyal servant of Acheon. I die with a clear conscience, knowing I did nothing but my duty to our country and our true king. Dark times lie ahead of you all, but they will not last. Acheon will not let them last.”

In a last act of defiance, the duke does not wait for the king’s command to kneel. He does it himself, on his own terms, and lays his head on the block, laying his arms out to signal that he is ready. But ultimately, that decision lies with Henry. The axe lines up against the duke’s neck, and rises, but it does not fall until Henry nods.

Henry cannot help but wince. The execution is clean at least. He doubts he would have been able to keep his face like stone if it took more than one blow. The sound of the strike is drowned out by the wail of his widow and at last Henry looks to her.

Her son, Michael, is looking to the king as his mother weeps against him. He is only nine years old, but the look he gives the king is downright murderous. Henry looks away, instead turning to his oldest friend. He leans to Bragg and says, “Send the young Duke Jones back to Veshire immediately. I don’t want him back at court until I summon him. And make sure he has no contact with anybody here in Wynrun without my knowledge.”

“At once, your grace.”

At that, Henry leaves, hoping he will never again be forced to put anybody to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated including this chapter for a long time (which is why it's late), but in all the historical fiction I watch/read, executions are always some of the most significant scenes and I think it is important for the character development. Regardless of a monarch's reluctance, every medieval/renaissance ruler had executions under their watch and how they react to them makes the character much more real than glossing over them.
> 
> Anyway, prologue chapters over :). Next chapter will be after a major time-skip when the rest of the AH guys can finally become major political players in their own right.


	6. The Dead Should Stay Dead

**598 NE**

“What is it now, Larry?” Henry groans as he makes his way across the council’s chamber to his seat. “And what is so dangerous it can’t be shared with the rest of the council?”

The Lord Treasurer, Laurence Matovina, sat in the seat beside him, clears his throat and presents a letter to the king. “We found this smuggled into the palace by a serving girl. I believe she is loyal to Free. We have her in custody for questioning.”

The letter is addressed to Alfredo Diaz, and the writing is unfamiliar to Henry. The broken seal bears a sigil that too is unfamiliar to the king. “Free is smuggling letters to Diaz?”

“It seems so, Your Majesty.”

“And Free can’t be here to defend himself to me before the privy council?”

“It seems, Your Grace, that Gavin Free is flirting with treason.”

Henry raises his eyebrow at that. “That is a bold allegation to bring against one of my nobles. I had Gavin raised here under my own watch.”

“I apologise, sire, but I wouldn’t voice these concerns if I didn’t believe they were true.”

The king taps the letter. “And Diaz? You’re accusing my ward of treason too?”

Larry motions to the letter. The king eyes him carefully, then he unfolds the letter and reads silently.

'Fredo,

I don't really know how to start to write this. Only this morning they told you had survived the siege on our home and live to this day. Had I had any reason to believe you could have lived, I would have sought you out sooner.

Duke Chad James of Mareon has taken me in as his guest. He and I, and others loyal to the true king, are raising an army as we speak. We can take back the kingdom and restore our house, but we need support within Acheon, and I need you. Father always told us that your place was by my side. Come meet me here; I think we have a lot to talk about.

Yours,  
Your little brother Trevor.  
Duke of Sureon.'

“Is this real?” Henry demands. “Is there any legitimacy to this claim?”

“There’s no way to know, Your Grace,” Larry says.

“It was my understanding that the Collins heir was dead.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, that understanding was formed on the basis of a testimony from a frightened child who saw nothing. No body was ever found.”

“Alfredo believes his brother is dead.”

“The bastard was told the orders were to slaughter his family, and he never saw his brother again; of course he believes his brother is dead. That doesn’t mean the Collins heir did not escape without his knowledge.”

Henry growls. “Are there any other letters? Is there any way Alfredo could know about this?”

“We’ve searched his rooms, sire. There’s no evidence of any correspondence with anybody beyond Wynrun’s borders. We’re confident that this was the first letter this false duke has sent to him. But no doubt they’ll try again if they think, and they must think, that they can win the bastard to their cause.”

Henry rises and slams the table, throwing the letter to one side. “Damn fucking Collins!” he storms towards the door. “Fetch me Diaz – tell him to report to my quarters immediately!”

“And Free, Your Grace?”

“I will deal with Free once I’ve heard from Diaz!”

“We missed you at my investiture,” Matt says. “Jeremy got so drunk he stole a lute and tried to perform with the band. Lead singer, too. They weren’t impressed.”

Alfredo chuckles, but his laugh fades into a sigh. “So I heard. I’d love to have gone, but Henry kept me busy here.”

“Really? Because I heard you went on a hunting trip.”

“Very busy,” Alfredo repeats.

Matt rolls his eyes. “If you don’t want to go to Solpeak, just say it, I’ll understand.”

“It’s not that,” Alfredo says. He sighs again but turns to face Matt and extends a hand. “Congratulations, my lord” he says, smiling. “The people of Sureon are lucky.”

Matt flushes red. “It still doesn’t feel real. Duke of Sureon. I think that’ll always be my father’s title to me, not mine.”

‘My father’s too,’ an intrusive thought interjects in Alfredo’s mind as Matt takes his offered arm. He rebukes himself and pats Matt’s arm. “You’ll come around to it. Everyone comes around to it.”

“Thank you, Alfredo. Your approval means a lot to me, you know? And hey, what about you? I heard Henry was considering making you head of his guard.”

“He tried. I turned him down,” Alfredo admits.

“So what’s the plan?” Matt asks. “You know, I need to make my own court at Solpeak. I think the common people would like to see you fill a spot. It shows we’re united.”

Alfredo shrugs. “Thanks but no thanks. I like being near Henry. Besides, if I left, he’d miss us all too much.”

Matt laughs off his disappointment. “Ever apathetic. You can’t stay a ward forever, you know.”

“Without land or an inheritance? Yes I can.”

“You don’t need land, and I know you don’t want it anyway. Just get a nice property.”

“I already have one. It’s called my rooms and Henry wants me to stay there.”

“Right. Remind me what the fuck he pays you for again?”

“Good company,” Alfredo shoots him a grin.

“DIAZ!”

Matt chuckles. “I think our king is in the mood for some of that good company now. I’ll be on my way then.” He pats Alfredo’s back and nods to the oncoming soldiers as he leaves.

Matt receives bows in return, but all Alfredo gets is a stern look. “The king requests your urgent company in his quarters.”

“Urgent?” Alfredo almost laughs. “Alright. You don’t need to follow me, boys, I know my way.”

The walk there is short and mostly uneventful, though, Alfredo does notice Gavin Free stood alone in one of the corridors. The two don’t speak, although Alfredo does offer a nod in respect. Free is, of course, one of the great nobles of the kingdom and the two had been somewhat close when they were raised as wards together. After his father died and Gavin came into his own place in the world, he turned cold towards Alfredo, and it wasn’t entirely unusual for the duke to look at him as if he offended him.

This time is slightly different. Instead of a cold glare or disinterest, Free looks at Alfredo as if he expects something. The duke looks worried, but he says nothing, and after they pass he does not look back.

Alfredo finds the king in his chambers sat at his table with a pail of wine. He bows when Henry’s eyes rose to him and stands on the opposing end of the table. “You summoned me?”

“Sit down, Alfredo. I just wanted to talk.” Henry gestures to the seat beside him, and pours a glass of wine for him as he sits. He slides it over and pours his own. “You were showing Dooley up in the courtyard this morning.”

“Educating him,” Alfredo corrects.

“You’re wasting your time. Jeremy will never be a marksman. Drink.”

Alfredo eyes the wine suspiciously. “A little early, isn’t it?”

“You’ve never complained before. Come on,” the king raises his glass. “While we’re still young.”

At that, Alfredo grins and downs the wine. Henry takes a much smaller sip and says, “Tell me about your mother.”

“My mother? I never knew her, Henry, you know that.”

“I know. But what do you know about her? Where was she from?”

“I don’t know. Mareon? My father found her somewhere on the continent and she stayed with him until she died. He didn’t speak about her.”

“He must have felt something for her. After all, he took you in rather than have you left in an orphanage.”

“Sure,” Alfredo shrugs, “Maybe he did. Like I said, he didn’t talk about her, and I wasn’t allowed to ask.”

“Funny that he gave you her name rather than his own and expected you not to ask,” Henry says thoughtfully as he pours more wine for Alfredo. “And your brother? What do you remember about him?”

Alfredo pauses before he takes another sip. He brows furrow, and he puts the glass back down. “My brother is dead, Your Grace.”

Henry studies Alfredo’s eyes closely and waits for any sort of tell. An awkward shift, a glance to the door, anything suspicious. When he finds nothing, he sits back. “You never saw his body.”

“What’s this about, Henry? Ramsey supporters again? Nobody’s heard from the old king for years – he’s probably dead. Soon enough he’d have been too old to come against you anyway.”

“And your brother?”

“My brother is dead.”

“Even so,” Henry says, “Hypothetically speaking, if Trevor Collins walked through that door there with a blade ready to cut me down, would you stand against him or run to his side?”

“Neither, Henry, because he’s dead!”

Henry nods once, taps his glass as he thinks, and waits until Alfredo calms a little. “There’s somebody on the continent parading around using your brother’s name.”

Alfredo’s eyes grow wide for a moment, before he scowls and says, “Just a damn pretender.”

“Gavin Free doesn’t seem to think so.”

“Why would Gavin know about him before me? Why didn’t he reach out to me first?”

“Because he didn’t know you lived. And he does now. He is staying in Mareon with the ruling duke. He’s summoned you.”

“I won’t go,” Alfredo promises, “I won’t see any imposter pretending to be my brother.”

“You will,” the king orders, “And you’ll be open and courteous about it.”

Alfredo stares. He wants to shake the king, as him if he’s lost his mind. But there’s nothing he can do, so he sits and waits to hear what Henry has to say.

“You’ll go to their court and meet this pretender; there’s a ship leaving port tomorrow. Act as if they were winning you to their cause and gain their trust. Learn who in Acheon has contacted them, and let me know; I’ll send a spy every day for you; they’ll be on the ship with you, learn their faces. And when you return to me, you can denounce the pretender before my court. Nobody will believe the pretender over his own supposed brother’s testimony.”

“And if I can’t?” Alfredo asks. “If I can’t stomach some stranger pretending to be my dead little brother parading around using my father’s old titles?”

“Well, what happens on the continent is not under my jurisdiction, but I would rather you didn’t put yourself in any unnecessary danger. You’ve been a good friend to me, Alfredo.”

Alfredo nods once. “You should know,” Henry says, “That this pretender will want something from you. If not Sureon, then the kingdom itself. He’ll have treasonous conversations with you. You must engage with him; offer him false information as if you believe them. I’ll turn a blind eye to any threats you make against my kingdom for the duration of your trip. I know they will be false.”

“Is this a trap?”

“For you? No. I know you’re loyal – if I had any doubts you wouldn’t be going.”

Alfredo sighs with his relief. Henry isn’t wrong to put his faith in him, and ironically the king seems to be the only person at court who can forget Alfredo’s ancestry to see that. “Fine, I’ll do it. How long?”

Henry thinks it over for a moment while he toys with his cup. “Until you think you know all you can and your departure won’t look suspicious. I’d say a month. Go prepare – I’ll send you the ship’s details later.”

Alfredo nods and heads for the door. When he reaches for the handle, he hesitates, then turns around again. “You don’t think there’s any chance Trevor lived, do you?”

“No,” Henry lies, “No, the true Collins heir is dead.”


	7. The Golden City

After almost four days of travelling, land finally reveals itself on the horizon. The shouts bring Alfredo and a few other passengers onto the top deck for their first view of the continent.

The first thing that hits them is the warmth in the air. The sun shone much brighter here than on Wynrun, and the skies were a clear blue – there was barely a cloud in sight.

The coastline stretched as far as Alfredo could see in either direction. Most of it seemed bare, with maybe only a few small fishing villages along the coast. But directly before them stood a city.

From sea it it difficult to judge, but the city could be the size of Wynrun, or perhaps even larger. It looks golden under the sun with its strange fortifications and buildings of pale stone.

“Beauty, isn’t she?” the captain asks, pacing to Alfredo’s side to get his own look at the ancient city. “The biggest port in the known world. Maybe the oldest civilisation, too.”

“How old is it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person. So what’s your business? Going home?”

Alfredo shoots him a suspicious look. “I’ve never left Acheon before.”

“Really? Funny, I thought the bastard of Solpeak was born here.”

“What do you want?” Alfredo growls.

“Decent story, not much else. Does the king know you’re here?”

“Why do you care?”

The captain smirks, leans over and gestures. “See that palace up there on the eastern side? The duke lives there. Recently they’ve locked it down – nobody knows why. Hardly anybody goes in or out. But there’s rumours. People think the duke’s protecting a guest. And now the bastard of Solpeak has left court quietly?” The captain tuts.

Alfredo scowls but says nothing and keeps his eyes on the city. Until he gets back to Acheon, it’s best if the rumours say he snuck out of court. If they reach the pretender, at least it will help convince them of his loyalty.

The captain smirks. It is the smirk of somebody who will reliably spread this story to anybody who will listen as soon as they dock. “Well, if the duke won’t let you in, we sail back in two days.” He pats Alfredo’s arm and says, “Good luck,” before finally leaving him.

When the ship docks, it is easy to see why the captain called the port the largest in the known world – there are more ships and boats docked here than Alfredo has seen in his life, with at least a dozen close by at sea. Most appear to be merchant ships, though there are a few carracks belonging to the navy. The port is surrounded by tall stone walls manned with hundreds of soldiers and even cannons. However King Geoffrey took this city all those years ago, it was clearly not by sea.

On land, the port meets a bustling market. The crowd that dominates it is as diverse as the wares that the merchants sell – people from all across the world have settled in Mareon, and it appears the city has only prospered from it. Against the blandness of Acheon, even when he wears the cloak of a common traveller, Alfredo sticks out as an outsider. Here, nobody glances twice.

But as marvellous as it is, he isn’t here for the city, or its people, or its market. Alfredo’s eyes find the white-stone palace settled on an elevated position above most of the city, surrounded by a ring of fortifications. Somewhere in there, somebody is using Trevor’s name, and somehow Alfredo must smile and bear it. Stood at port, far from the palace, Alfredo doesn’t believe he can even smile now.

As Alfredo approaches the grand palace of Mareon, the guards manning the gates lower their pikes, denying entry. “Halt!” one of them demands.

“I want an audience with the duke,” Alfredo says.

“Who asks?”

“A diplomat. One with coin.”

One guard raises an eyebrow. “Armed?”

Alfredo unclasps from his belt the scabbard that holds his sword. He throws it to the closest guard and says, “Happy?”

One of the men nods and says, “Wait here.”

The court doors open into a grand hall of gold and white, with the duke’s symbol, a golden deer, hanging down around the court. The sun streams through stained-glass windows of the duchy’s greatest rulers.

Alfredo draws his hood down and walks through the centre between mostly empty benches. Only those closest to the duke’s throne are occupied a few wealthy nobles who regard him closely. They don’t seem to recognise him, so he assumes they believe he is just another diplomat from one of the other continental kingdoms or duchies. That assumption works for him.

Alfredo waits before the throne, which sits between two smaller ones. One of the smaller thrones belongs to the duchess, but Alfredo isn’t certain who the other is for.

“Please rise for Duke James of Mareon, and our guest, the representative of King Geoffrey of Acheon, Duke Collins of Sureon.”

Alfredo winces at his father’s title being used. King Henry didn’t allow his former enemies to be addressed by their titles, and Alfredo hadn’t protested. After all, Henry had treated him far better than the Collins house ever did. Alfredo has a place at court and the respect of many nobles – more than he could ever have dreamed of had the conquest never happened. Still, the pain Henry had sheltered him from stings now.

The young Duke James enters with robes as grand as those Henry adorns, perhaps even more so. He does not wear a crown, but he still dominates the room. His hair is even more golden than Henry’s, and he’s younger too, and most importantly, he is loved by his subjects. Bowing before the duke is almost natural.

At least, it would be, if Alfredo’s eyes did not stray past the duke to the man that follows him. Young, like himself. Tall, like himself. Dark-haired, like himself. Deep brown eyes, like his own. But unlike Alfredo, this man’s skin is like snow, even with the warm sun over Mareon. Still, the resemblance is undeniable.

The duke of Mareon sits at his throne and regards Alfredo from head to toe. The other man, he stands by the third throne. Before he can sit, his eyes lock with Alfredo’s, and he too freezes where he stands.

“Would our guest care to introduce themselves?” Duke James asks as the other nobles seat themselves.

Alfredo pries his eyes away from the other man and he sweeps into a bow. “My lord,” he says with a shaky voice that surprises even him. “My name is…”

“Alfredo…” the other man says. Alfredo’s eyes dart up to see him approaching. He stands before Alfredo, almost eye-to-eye, although now they stand on the same level Alfredo sees that this man just beats him in height. “Fredo, is it really you?” the man asks, barely above a whisper.

The use of the nickname only Trevor had ever used hits like a punch to the gut. Alfredo gulps down the pain and nods without a word.

The man beams and suddenly hugs Alfredo. “I missed you, brother. It’s been so long, I thought you were dead!”

Alfredo slowly hugs back, though he isn’t able to muster words. He can’t even figure out how he feels, though he certainly feels something towards the man.

The man steps back, turning to allow Alfredo to see Duke James again. The man bows and beams at the duke. “Chad, this is my brother, Alfredo Diaz!”

The nobles around them begin muttering amongst themselves – no doubt they’ll be writing to their allies all across the continent and even in Acheon soon enough. The young duke smiles and says, “I thought you looked similar. Welcome, Alfredo. I’ve heard a lot about you. Although, you’re a little taller than the stories made you out to be.”

“When I found out you were still alive, I was ecstatic! I wrote to you as soon as I could. I knew you’d come find me.”

“I…” Alfredo murmurs. His voice is far quieter than he intended. He clears his throat and looks to the duke. “My lord, I’ve travelled a long way. Would you mind if I rest?”

Chad nods once and motions to one of his men. “Show Diaz to one of the guest rooms.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Alfredo says, bowing.

“Just one thing before you go,” the duke says. “You’ll join me for dinner tonight, won’t you? There’s much to discuss, and I’m sure you have many questions too.”

“I… I will. Thank you.”

Chad nods and stands. “Court dismissed,” he announces.

Alfredo glances at the pretender’s face, just for a moment, and what he sees is confusion and pain. He turns quickly, drawing his hood back up as he follows the guard from court towards his rooms. “Fredo!” he hears as he goes. He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head slightly and then fixes his gaze forward until he is safely away.


	8. Two Sons

“Trevor, stop pacing,” Chad groans.

The words don’t reach Trevor’s ears. He’s been irritated and worrisome ever since Alfredo arrived. “I just don’t understand.”

“What’s important is that we have him now, and Mortimer doesn’t,” Chad says.

“But he…”

“Trevor!” Chad grabs his shoulders as he passes. “He’s in shock! And so are you! It’s been a long time. Relax. He’ll come around.”

Trevor sighs and closes his eyes. “Right. Okay.” He takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes again. “I need to talk to him.”

“No, no, no! Speak with him tonight, if he doesn’t find us sooner. Until then, just chill, alright? He’s probably sleeping.”

“He’s not sleeping. Not if he feels the same as I do.”

A young voice behind Chad scoffs. “Oh, let him go, James. The sooner they get their whole catch up over with, the sooner we can find out what the bastard knows.”

Chad glances back over his shoulder to his ward. Fiona Nova stands impatiently in the doorway with her arms folded. She is young – far younger than Trevor, even, but her affinity for politics is incredible for her age. She made the first bold move to contact Gavin Free, and she spends hours a day studying Acheon as if it is her own title and fortune on the line. The day Chad loses her to her inheritance is a day Chad fears.

“Five minutes, Chad,” Trevor begs. “If he doesn’t answer the door I’ll leave him. I just want to talk to my brother.”

Chad rolls his eyes and releases Trevor. “If you insist; one of you will bother him behind my back regardless. But don’t expect too much of him yet, Trevor.”

“Thank you,” Trevor says sincerely. He bows and hurries from the study.

Chad watches him go, then looks to Fiona. “Go on, what are you thinking?” he asks.

“I don’t like that he’s here. I still don’t believe Trevor was right to contact him.”

“They’re brothers,” Chad comments, “Diaz could be one of the best allies we could ask for in Acheon – he’s an obvious choice.”

“Too obvious,” Fiona mumbles. “They’re brothers, sure, but nobles too, and Alfredo has something Trevor has always wanted: a home in Acheon, and a place beside a king, no less. Presumably, Trevor has something Alfredo wants too. His inheritance, maybe, or their father’s posthumous love. Just watch – they’ll be tearing at each other’s throats sooner or later, once they realise the other doesn’t hold up to their expectations.”

'HRH King Henry Mortimer of Acheon,

My brother lives. Send me new instructions or order me home, I beg you.

AD'

Alfredo stares at the hastily written note on his desk. The message is written with such haste and panic that even he struggles to make the words out. At some point soon, one of Henry’s spies will find him and they will expect a letter for the king.

If Alfredo lets this note go, he dreads the response he will get in return. Henry is a good king, yes, but paranoid and terrified of Geoffrey’s followers. He showed Alfredo mercy, but that was when he was just the young and helpless bastard of a dead duke. Trevor is a man grown, with an army raised and, even if not duke by law, he certainly has a birthright to it. No doubt Henry would prefer it if Trevor instead disappeared. Too many nobles would join with the youngest of Henry’s unfortunate victims, miraculously resurrected and ready to avenge his father.

But if Alfredo doesn’t send the note, is he the traitor? When Trevor is eventually discovered to live, and he will be discovered, it will prove that Alfredo either lied to or withheld vital information from the king. Within the hour Alfredo would find himself locked up and possibly even facing death.

No, neither of these options are inevitable, Alfredo decides. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps he can persuade Trevor to stay in exile quietly. Trevor lives a good life here, as far as Alfredo can tell. The city is a wonder compared to anything within Acheon, and the duke treats him kindly. Trevor doesn’t need to be Duke of Sureon, and maybe he can be made to see that. Alfredo lives a good and prosperous life within Henry’s court without land or title – why can’t Trevor do that here?

At a knock on the door, Alfredo throws the note into the flames. He waits until the slip of paper has fully burned to ash before he unbolts and opens the door.

Of course it is Trevor – Alfredo should have guessed. Trevor’s mouth opens and he takes a breath as if he were about to launch into a rant, but his throat catches and he closes his mouth again. Alfredo raises an eyebrow. “You want to talk?”

“Yes!” Trevor says, thankful for the prompt. “Can I come in?”

Alfredo takes a step back and Trevor steps past. Alfredo closes the door behind them, takes a deep breath and turns to face his younger brother.

Trevor offers an unsure smile. “It’s… been a long time, I know.”

“I’m surprised you even remember what I look like,” Alfredo admits.

Trevor shrugs. “True, my memory was hazy, but I see that day almost every day in my nightmares. You’re always there. I remember you grabbing my hand and dragging me into the wardrobe. You knocked the castle I was building over.”

As if Alfredo needed any more confirmation that it was his brother stood before him.

“Besides, I saw myself in you. Er, I mean, Father, I guess. They tell me I look like him. We both must,” Trevor says.

“You’re almost a spitting image of him,” Alfredo confirms.

“You remember? I can barely picture him. I remember he was tall. Towered over us." Trevor chuckles nervously. "Now look at us.”

“Yeah. You might even be taller than him.”

Trevor smiles, then his eyes divert and he clears his throat. “How did you survive?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Alfredo says.

“The secret passage, remember it? They sent me through it, and there was a boat waiting for me. They smuggled me to the continent.”

“And you grew up here at court?”

Trevor shakes his head. “No. There was a fishing village, and a man who was loyal to Father took me in. His name was Gus. Father must have arranged for something like this when he was over here with the king. Gus wasn’t wealthy but somehow he got me an education. On his deathbed he sent word to Mareon. Chad came for me personally.”

“And were you happy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I was. I missed my old life, but Gus was kind. He gave me the best upbringing he could. What about you, Fredo? Chad says you’re influential in Mortimer’s court. How did a Collins manage to gain favour with him?”

“Easy,” Alfredo says, “Don’t be a Collins.”

“You denied us?” Trevor asks.

“After they sacked Solpeak they captured me and took me to the king. I could either renounce my claim or they would have thrown me in prison for the rest of my life. Family pride isn’t worth my life and I thought you were all dead anyway. After that, Henry showed me mercy. He raised me with other noble sons and we learned to understand each other. Henry hated our family – I think he saw my success as an insult to our ancestors.”

“He made a Collins pet out of you,” Trevor accuses.

“He gave me more than Father or you ever would have done, and he offered me far more gifts and honours that I refused. I thought I was alone in the world and through Henry I found a place for myself. Whatever his motivations, I won’t apologise for that.”

“You’re close to the usurper? Friends, even?” Trevor asks. “He killed Father, Fredo. And my mother, and most of the household we grew up with. You believed he killed me!”

“He did what he had to!” Alfredo argues. “He hit us hard, sure, but he took the throne without a civil war! He brought peace with hardly any casualties! That’s more than Geoffrey ever could have!”

“The Ramseys saved Acheon! The Mortimers are tyrants – look at their history! Soon enough, that usurper will prove to be just the same!”

“You can’t know that! Who the hell would you replace him with anyway? Yourself?”

“No!” Trevor interrupts quickly. “I never want the throne. Don’t talk like that. All I want is our home back.”

“You’ll never take Sureon while Henry sits on the throne. You need somebody to replace him. Does Chad James want the throne? What claim does he have? What claim does anybody have that’s stronger than Henry’s? Even Henry’s bitterest enemies know that, after Geoffrey, Henry was always the next logical heir.”

“Key phrase,” Trevor says, “After Geoffrey.”

Alfredo’s skin grows pale and he gulps. “He’s alive?”

“Come see for yourself.”


	9. The Grand Library

The doors Trevor guides Alfredo to are deep within the palace, far from the court and the hall and the guest room that Alfredo was housed within. Yet, these doors are the most elaborate doors he has seen since he arrived in Mareon – perhaps ever. They tower above them, stretching to a height of two, maybe even three normal storeys, with fine patterns and etchings marked into the wood.

“This is the Grand Library,” Trevor explains while Alfredo’s eyes try to take in the magnificence of the entrance. “Or, it was. Fifteen years ago it was closed to everyone for refurbishment. As far as anybody else is concerned, it’s still being refurbished.”

“But it’s not?” Alfredo asks.

Trevor smiles smugly and hits the knocker against the door three times. The sound echoes around what must be a huge room inside. Trevor guides Alfredo to stand before the door and steps back.

There is a loud unlocking sound from behind the doors, and one of them opens just enough for a man to step out. The man is tall, with red hair and an incredibly impressive beard. His eyes skim over Alfredo once and he says: “Good afternoon, Trevo… No…” he breathes, stepping outside and closing the door softly behind him. “Not Trevor. Alfredo?”

“You know me, sir?”

“Know you? We met many times, although that was so long ago, I admit. Oh, you’re all grown up!” the man cries before he pulls the young man into a sudden hug.

“Alfredo, this is Jack Pattillo, Lord Treasurer and chief advisor to the king,” Trevor explains.

Jack Pattillo pulls back from the hug and clasps Alfredo’s shoulders. “Look at you! My goodness, you look just like your father! If my vision were any worse, you and Trevor could be twins! Oh, but there’s so much of your mother I can see too.”

“My mother?” Alfredo asks.

“Yes, yes, I knew her briefly, poor little thing. Goodness, how are you? When did you arrive?”

Trevor chuckles behind them. “He worried over me like this when I first got here too.”

“Apologies,” Jack says, “I’m just so glad that you’re both alright and you’re together again! Ah, it warms the heart. But you didn’t come here to see old Pattillo, did you?”

“I’m not sure what I’m here to see, actually,” Alfredo says. Jack’s appearance did nothing to clear anything up. Rather, now his mind races as he wonders how this man knew his mother – what he knows of his mother. He can’t help but also notice that Pattillo seems in every way preferable to his replacement Larry.

“Will he take a private audience with Fredo?” Trevor asks Jack.

Jack grins. “Well, I don’t usually like interrupting him while he reads, but this is an exceptional case.” He steps back to the door and pushes it open. “After you,” he says to the young men.

Trevor thanks Jack and guides Alfredo inside. The room they enter is large enough that it could be a small palace itself. It is lit with natural light streaming from the huge windows high above them. The walls are lined with hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions of books. Above them is a giant golden mechanism of spheres orbiting around a larger, jewelled orb. The great library is scattered with desks and cushioned seats for reading, and other strange scientific contraptions.

Trevor chuckles at Alfredo’s awe. “They say everything mankind has ever learned is recorded here. Most of it is in distant or ancient languages, though. The Dukes of Mareon have been working through it for centuries, paying for translators, but there’s still so much to do.”

“Geoff’s chambers are just behind those doors,” Jack says, pointing to a set of doors towards the back of the library. He leads Alfredo and knocks in a strange pattern.

“Yes?” a man calls back.

“A visitor, Geoffrey, from Acheon, if you’ll have them,” Jack announces.

“Send them in.”

Jack pats Alfredo’s shoulder and wishes him luck, then he and Trevor retreat to a respectable distance for their own conversation.

Alfredo pushes the doors slowly. He peers into an office filled with yet more books and papers scattered everywhere. Towards the back of the room is a glass door to a balcony, and beyond that, the rolling fertile lands east of Mareon.

At the desk in the corner of the room sits a man, older than Alfredo by almost a generation. He sits reading a book so old it looks like it could fall apart with a breath, and he doesn’t look up immediately.

When he does, his blue eyes fall on Alfredo and he smiles, closing the book slowly. “Over six foot tall, dark hair, dark eyes, that Collins look, but with an essence of the continent. The last time I saw you, Alfredo, your brother was barely a year old. You probably don’t recognise me, do you?”

Alfredo shakes his head, then checks himself. He is talking to a king. Not the king he recognises, but the king that he used to recognise. Should he bow? Address him as Alfredo would address Henry? He decides to err on the side of caution and bows a very jittery and unsure bow. “Your… Grace?”

“Stand up, son, no need for formalities.” Geoffrey gestures for Alfredo to sit opposite him. “Would you like a drink? I must have every form of wine available on this earth, though I rarely drink it. I must admit, I’ve gone off the stuff.”

Alfredo wishes he could accept, committing acts of treason is admittedly far easier when drunk, but politely declines and takes a seat.

Geoffrey places his book to the side and leans close. “Tell me, Alfredo, how is my kingdom? How is it really? How are my people?”

“They’re… content, I think. Our last harvest was good, and we haven’t had a plague outbreak for three summers. There haven’t been any revolts that I’ve heard of for even longer.”

Geoffrey smiles and sits back. “Good. That’s great to hear. All I ever hear from the duke or Jack or your brother is court business. I’m quite sick of hearing the gossip. I like to hear about my subjects.” Geoffrey sighs and glances outside. “I’ve been gone for so long I suppose many of them won’t even remember me.”

“You’re not forgotten,” Alfredo admits.

“No? It’s a wonder then,” the old king says.

“Have you been here all this time?”

Geoffrey nods and chuckles. “I put Chad’s father where he is today. You could say that the James family owed me.”

“How did you escape?” Alfredo asks.

Geoffrey laughs again. “Mortimer had terrible timing. Jack and I were out hunting. When we saw the city had fallen we simply fled. Mortimer’s men never saw us.”

“Did anybody from Solpeak find you? Aside from Trevor, did anybody escape?”

“You’re asking about your father,” Geoffrey comments. When Alfredo nods, Geoffrey shakes his head. “No. As far as I heard, they found your father’s body in the courtyard. Trevor’s mother too. The rest of the court must have been slaughtered or fled into obscurity. You and your brother are all that are left.”

Alfredo’s heart sinks. This is of course something he has known since the day he met Henry, but he’d already seen one miracle today in Trevor’s survival; arguably two with Geoffrey's. Maybe he thought there could be another.

“Alfredo,” Geoffrey says quickly. He sits forward again and clasps Alfredo’s hand between both of his. “I told your brother this, and I want you to know too. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what happened to your home. Your father was one of my closest friends and one of the greatest men I ever knew; he was my mentor and an inspiration to me. I still hold myself accountable for what happened; if I had known Mortimer was coming for Solpeak I would have marched south without hesitation. I just wish I could tell your father, but you and Trevor are the closest I’ll ever be to him again. It haunts me every day.”

The king’s outburst takes Alfredo by surprise, and he isn’t entirely sure how to respond. He leaves the king in a sombre reflection for a moment before saying: “Thank you. But… if you’re trying to reach my father through us, you should speak with Trevor. My father wasn’t fond of me.”

“Alfredo, do you think he brought you to Acheon and faced the wrath of Duchess Collins for a son he wasn’t fond of? Do you think he wrote to me twice about legitimisation for a son he wasn’t fond of? Believe me, if he didn’t care for you, he would have abandoned you here like most noble bastards and made his life and marriage far easier. Instead he took you home and housed you and educated you, did he not? ‘Wasn’t fond of me’, where did you get that stupid idea from? Is that your memory of him? Or did Mortimer tell you that?”

“I… Father tried to legitimise me?”

“Twice,” the old king confirms, “Although Duchess Collins and her family objected. I turned him down twice to keep the peace. This was before Trevor was born; after that it seems he didn’t want to disinherit Trevor. Better to leave you with what you were always born to than to cause a rift between you both later. How fortunate I didn’t, else you’d have been slain in Solpeak or exiled with Trevor.”

“Slain,” Alfredo says. “The duchess would have served me up on a platter at the first sign of trouble.”

Geoffrey chuckles and rocks back on his seat. “I dare say you’re right. So, Diaz, when you write to your king, you can give him the good news that you’re certainly no threat to that Bragg heir.”

Alfredo splutters at the sudden turn. “Wha…?!”

“Don’t play with me,” Geoffrey warns. “Trevor is blinded by you, and perhaps the duke too by the opportunities you present, but I’ve been in this game for a long time. I know there’s no chance you would have escaped the Wynrun without the king’s forces noticing, and even with Gavin Free’s help I doubt you’d have made it out of the kingdom. Mortimer knows you’re here, and he either chose not to stop you, or he sent you himself. I’m banking on that last one.”

By Alfredo’s silence, Geoffrey knows he’s right. He grins and says, “So, when you write to your king, let him know I’m in good health and high spirits, and I’ll be coming back for what’s mine soon.”

Alfredo gulps and nods.

“I like you,” the old king says. “Consider throwing your weight behind your brother, won’t you? If you do, you’ll have my protection, and I will give those loyal to me in Acheon orders to protect you and evacuate you if needed. Once I come to my throne again, I’ll make it worthwhile to you.”

“You’re asking me to commit treason against an anointed king.”

“He’s anointed, I’m anointed. One way or another, whatever you do, it’s treason, so don’t let that stop you. Ultimately, it’s your choice, Alfredo, and I’ll understand whichever way you choose. Just remember that I cannot guarantee mercy if you declare against me, not even for Trevor or for your father’s sake.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Your Grace.”

“Good. Go on, get back to Trevor before Jack bores him to death.”

Alfredo takes the opportunity to make his escape. He rises, bows, and darts for the door.

“Alfredo!” Geoffrey calls, halting him in his tracks.

He looks back at the old king and says, “Your Grace?”

“When Mortimer summons you back, come see me one last time, won’t you?” Geoffrey asks. Alfredo nods and Geoffrey gestures that he can go. Alfredo makes his retreat back into the Grand Library.


	10. The Greatest Duchess

When Gavin marches through the doors of Whiteport castle he finds his duchess Megan scurrying down the grand staircase to meet him, flanked by her ladies. Behind closed doors, the duchess disregards formalities and throws herself into her husband’s arms.

“I heard you fled court – I was terrified!” she sobs. She pulls away and cups his face in her hands. “Gavin, what is happening? Nobody tells me anything. Is the king angry?”

“Meg,” he says calmly, though he looks flustered and anxious. “King Geoffrey lives.”

“What?” Meg asks. She giggles nervously. “Geoffrey…?”

“Alive in Mareon. Trevor Collins too.”

“Gavin, that’s insanity,” Meg protests.

“I thought so too, but it’s them. I’ve been in correspondence with them for months. Now Mortimer is onto me and the Sureon bastard has fled court – probably gone to Mareon. Now we…”

“You’ve been working against the king,” Meg accuses. She pushes away from Gavin. “Are you insane?!”

“I’ve been working for my king, Meg.”

“Your king? Henry has been nothing but good to us. My family owe everything to him! And you? He let your family keep the wealthiest duchy in the kingdom – he trusted you! When your father died, he installed you as duke personally! He paid my dowry! And our wedding gift? Half of the lands confiscated from your father returned. Is that not enough for you, Free? What more can Henry do for us?!”

Gavin shakes his head as he runs his hands through her hair. They said he was stupid when he married her – a woman from a low-born house. She brought him very little – her father’s small land holdings in Veshire cannot be inherited by a Free thanks to an old treaty with the Joneses, and upon his death will therefore be surrendered to the crown instead. Her father had little to offer as a dowry either, but as Duke of Austur, Gavin is never at any want for money. He didn’t marry Meg for any of that.

When he first laid eyes on her at court, he was besotted by her. He thought she was the most beautiful and elegant woman he had ever or would ever lay eyes on, and that opinion has not changed. He liked her attitude too – she was respectful as she had to be, but she had no fear of Gavin, and still does not. Rather than submit to him like a dull and obedient pet, she challenges him when she believes he is making a mistake, and when they agree they make a formidable team. She also has a passion for ruling and making the lives of her people better. Austur could have no greater duchess, and Gavin no better partner.

But this is one of the instances where Gavin desperately wished she would stand beside him no matter her own opinion.

“Megan, I’m sorry,” he says, “From today, we’re openly against Mortimer.”

“NO!” she snaps, shoving his hand away from her. “No, I won’t stand for this madness! Gavin!”

The duke turns to one of his men. “Block passage along the river. Every ship coming in to Acheon docks at Whiteport first. Turn away luxury merchants; I will buy any food and supplies.”

“GAVIN!” Meg cries.

“And inform every vassal loyal to us. The king may intend to attack Austur – tell my people to be ready, and when he comes, I will personally support them.”

“Tell them nothing!” Meg shouts at the men, as if she commanded the same authority as Gavin. “In fact, write to the king and tell him we are his loyal subjects and whatever my idiot husband has done we apologise for it and hope to make amends!”

“Megan!”

“No, Gavin, I will not stand idly by while you try to dethrone Henry! You will lay your head on the block for this!”

“Is that a threat?” the duke growls.

“It is a warning! And if you’re not careful you’ll drag me and who knows how many others onto the scaffold with you!”

Gavin softens. Fighting with her won’t sway her – she is a woman of steel. Instead, he gestures to his men and Meg’s ladies. “Leave us.”

“My lord,” they all murmur. His men bow and the ladies curtsey and they all make their quick exits. All the while, Meg’s fiery gaze never once wavers from Gavin.

With a soft sigh, Gavin takes her hands and locks her eyes. “You don’t understand, Meg. I am a Free. My ancestors and I owe everything we have to the Ramseys. This isn’t a choice for me. If I don’t do something for Geoffrey, I betray everything I am.”

“And you married a Turney. We owe everything and more to Henry.”

“Not anymore. You’re a Free now too. Meg, please.” Gavin’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m frightened; I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’ve never needed you more than I need you now. Please, stand with me.”

Meg shakes her head and sheds tears. “I can’t. What you’re asking is impossible; I can never stand against our lord and king, not even for you.” She pulls away from Gavin and puts several paces between them. “If you must do this,” she says, “You do this alone.” She scoops her long skirt up and retreats back towards her rooms.

“Meg…!”

“You’re a fool, Gavin Free,” she responds coldly. “Or maybe I’m the fool to have married a traitor.”

At a knock, Henry calls to enter. A woman strides into the chamber at his response: a well-dressed woman who curtseys low and offers a shy smile to the king. When she rises, however, her head is high and she holds herself with great confidence; this is a woman who knows her importance. She is the duchess of Veshire, Duchess Lindsay Jones, Henry’s own personal choice of wife for the young Jones as a reward for her family’s unwavering loyalty to him.

“Your Grace,” she says sweetly.

“Duchess, I am glad to see you again,” the king says. He stands and offers a glass. “Refreshment?”

“No thank you, Your Grace,” Lindsay responds.

Henry nods and pours a drink for himself. “So, your husband is back at court?”

“Briefly. He’s here to settle a land dispute with Duke Dooley. It will be amicable, I’m sure. If they require referral to yourself my husband will submit to your will.”

The king smiles as if he heard a great joke. “No need for me, most likely. I assume Dooley will try to settle the matter over a drinking challenge.” He chuckles to himself, sips his own wine and continues. “And Free? Does your husband know anything of Free or Austur’s activities?”

“No, Your Grace. Michael has not spoken of Free with me recently. I believe Michael has as much of a distaste for Duke Free as their fathers did for each other.”

“And will this distaste be a problem?”

Lindsay shakes her head. “No, Your Grace. Michael has no intention of warring with Free, and I believe my husband to be above petty squabbles.”

“Hm. Would he, if I ordered it?”

“Your Grace?” Lindsay asks.

“If I ordered Veshire’s forces against Austur, would your husband comply?”

Lindsay looks confused, but responds, “Well, yes, if it were the king’s will… But why?”

“Oh, all hypothetical,” Henry deflects. “What about his father? Does Michael speak of him still?”

“He grieves for him, of course, but if you are thinking my husband still plots revenge, then no. That was a childish wish that I believe he matured from long before we married. Michael is as much your servant as I am, Your Grace.”

Michael Jones, a servant of the Mortimer king. It is almost unbelievable to think, but a welcome thought. With Veshire, three of the great counties are loyal to the crown. Added to the crownland’s own forces, and that is an army that could take an entire kingdom. If it comes to war, Austur doesn’t stand a chance alone.

The king rises, takes one of Lindsay’s hands and kisses it. “My lady, your reassurances are much needed. Thank you.”

“I only aim to serve,” she says, “But if you’ll allow me, my husband will soon wonder where I am.”

“Then don’t keep him waiting. Be safe, Lindsay,” Henry squeezes her hand and releases her. She curtseys again before leaving him to his thoughts.

It is a short dash through the palace before she finds Duke Michael Jones idling alone inside their guest bedroom. He sits by the window and watches the courtyard until he hears the door open. Lindsay skirts in, closes it and locks it behind her.

“What did you tell him?” Michael asks.

Lindsay smiles sweetly and takes his arm. “Only what you told me to.”

At that, Michael grins and pats her hand. “That’s my girl. Come on, we should pack. We ride home at dawn. I somehow get the impression that that moron in Whiteport will need rescuing soon.”

“Michael,” Lindsay interrupts. “He asked if we would go to war against Austur. Against Gavin.”

“Then we’ll go,” Michael says, “And when the time comes, we’ll join with him and the king and Collins.”

Lindsay hovers, biting her lip. “But the king is still suspicious of you. He’ll always be suspicious, Michael. He knows what he did to you; he understands your loss.”

Michael winces at the reminder, but takes a calming breath and clears his head and takes his wife’s hands. “Then I don’t need to worry about convincing him. But he’ll never suspect you, Lindsay.”


	11. A Minor Grievance

Chad shifts through the day’s business quickly as he walks. It doesn’t look like a particularly interesting day; there are a few land disputes, a few debts to settle, and a new justice to install. Later he will visit the dock and inspect some of the goods being imported.

As is common for him, he eats his breakfast on his way to his court. Normally he makes his way there so early his only companions in the sprawling corridors of the palace are servants running to and fro, preparing for the day. This morning, however, Chad had slept in somewhat, and the morning routine of the servants is almost complete by the time he strides through the palace.

Which is probably why, for the first time in several weeks, he is interrupted from his breakfast and business.

“My lord,” Fiona says, curtseying low. She is wearing one of her new gowns; she designed it herself. The gown itself is a deep red with golden embroidery, and the sleeves are grey. Atop her head is a jewel-encrusted headdress that sweeps her hair up from her shoulders. Chad can only wonder how much this has set him back.

“Good morning,” Chad says. “You’ll join me at court?”

“Later, my lord. This morning Jack asked me to walk with him in the gardens.”

Chad grins. “No doubt you’ll be stuck for hours, if Pattillo begins to tell his tales again.”

“Maybe. I don’t mind,” Fiona says. She and the old Lord Treasurer had struck up an unlikely friendship. While Chad was her guardian while in Mareon, it was Jack who had become her father figure.

“Would you mind if I escort you?” the duke asks. Fiona smiles and offers him her arm, and the two make their way through the palace.

“How are things between Collins and his brother?” Fiona asks, suddenly all-business.

Chad knows she is not asking about their relationship – she probably doesn’t care about that at all. What Fiona is asking for is results. Has the bastard opened up to his brother yet?

“It’s early days; the two are still getting used to each other,” the duke answers.

“It has been almost a week, Chad.”

“This is a sensitive time for them both, Fiona. They thought they were alone and now they have been thrust into each other’s lives again. This is a strange set of circumstances; it will take time, and for the time being it is perfectly reasonable for Diaz to remain reserved.”

“And do we have time?” Fiona asks. “Soon enough, Mortimer will discover what is going on here, and then we may find ourselves under siege or cut off from our allies. War is around the corner; we don’t have time to cosy up to some noble bastard.”

“I hope you don’t call him that to Trevor’s face,” the duke rebukes, “Bastard or no, he is our guest, and possibly our key into the Mortimer court. I won’t have you belittling him.”

“Of course not,” Fiona says humbly, “But until he delivers, that’s all he is to me.”

“He will,” Chad assures her. “He… What on earth is going on?!”

Fiona pauses with the duke. Close-by, within the public court room, by the sounds of it, is a din of yelling and cursing and arguing. The duke takes off, with Fiona scurrying behind as fast as she can in her restrictive dress, and the two burst into the balcony overlooking the court.

“For once in your life, Trevor,” Alfredo bellows below them, “Accept that there is a world beyond you, and maybe you’re not the best thing for it!”

“You want to talk to me about building a better world? I’m not the one cosying up to a murderous tyrant!” Trevor fires back.

The two brothers pace around each other on the marble floor, staring daggers at each other. Both have a hand on the hilt of their swords at their waist, and they look like they could pounce at any moment.

“He brought peace!”

“Through blood!”

“And what are you proposing? You’re not exactly going to invade with men armed with flowers, are you?!”

Fiona leans close to the duke’s horrified face and whispers, “What did I tell you? Should we stop them, my lord?”

Reluctantly, Chad shakes his head. “No, let them get it off their chest.”

“My mother didn’t sacrifice her life for me to sit here and let Mortimer and the Braggs destroy our family’s legacy!” Trevor howls, and at once the pacing ends and there is total silence for a brief period.

“Your mother…” Alfredo seethes, barely above a whisper. “Your mother tried to kill me.”

Trevor almost laughs at the idea. “What?”

Alfredo’s voice begins to rise again. “When she sent you off with all of her love and kisses, she sent me away dressed as you. She used me as bait. She wanted me to take your place; she wanted them to kill me so they would never look for you! And they almost did, Trevor. They had a blade to my neck; they were going to slaughter me on the side of the road!”

At the revelation, Trevor is almost dumbstruck into silence. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” Alfredo spits.

“You’re right – maybe I should have guessed by now. You know what my mother was like, Fredo. She was jealous.”

“Jealous of who?!” Alfredo snaps, “The dead woman or the motherless bastard?! Who could she possibly feel threatened by enough to justify an attempt on my life?! Trevor, I was six! So don’t berate me for cosying up to a murderer; I befriended the man who saved me from her. You’re the one with a child-killer’s blood in your veins.”

“I’m not saying she was right, but she did it to save my life, to save our family! I was her only child; don’t you think in her position you would have done anything? Don’t you think your mother would have done anything to keep you safe?”

Alfredo throws his arms out. “I don’t know! I guess my mother died before she got her chance at infant murder in my name.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I think I’m justified!”

“Alright, sure, you’re right,” Trevor concedes, “But why are you so mad with me about this? I didn’t do it – I didn’t even know about it. I don’t think I even knew what was happening. And if I felt the same way about you as she did, why would I have reached out to you?”

“My position alone was probably enough reason.”

Trevor grabs his sleeve. “You’re the last damn thing I have left! You could have as little as me or less and I would have reached out to you all the same.”

“Then as the last thing you have left, _listen to me_. You don’t need Father’s lands or titles. They won’t make you happy and they’ll never be worth laying your life on the line for.”

“This isn’t about my happiness! I can hardly sit here with the rightful king and the son of a man our father owed his life to under the same roof planning to restore me, and my parents’ murderer on the throne and an imposter ruling our home and do nothing!”

“Not nothing! Turn your back on them, Trevor. Walk away. That’s the biggest slap to Henry’s face you can give him – that’s how you win. You can build a better life here if you stay and serve the duke. You can live life for yourself, marry for love instead of duty, see the world, all of this that Henry could only dream of while he’s shackled to his throne.”

“Right, because the king won’t send assassins for me the moment he finds out I live? This is my life, Fredo; I’m not some worthless bastard son, I don’t get to walk away!”

Even Fiona’s breath catches at Trevor’s slip of the tongue. Alfredo’s hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, only to soften when the Duke of Mareon’s voice booms through the room. “Collins!”

Trevor’s head snaps around and upwards. He flushes red in embarrassment as he drops into a bow. “My lord. How, uh… How long have you been there?”

“Long enough,” Chad snaps. “What’s all this about?”

“Nothing, my lord,” Trevor replies quickly.

It earns a scoff from his brother which Trevor ignores, but that the duke does not. Chad casts his eyes over to Alfredo, who looks back but does not bow. There is a hint of resistance in his eyes. “Diaz?” the duke asks.

Alfredo answers, but he looks at Trevor as he does. “No, he’s right. This means absolutely nothing.” Only then does he bow in an almost mocking gesture to the duke. When he rises he spins on his heels and leaves Trevor to face Chad alone.

Trevor, Chad and Fiona watch until the doors close behind him. Then, Chad scowls at Trevor and raises his voice. “You’re throwing away our best hope to infiltrate the Mortimer court. Are you insane?!”

“Don’t blame me, he’s the one who keeps…”

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?!” the duke bellows over him. “You want me to make you Duke of Sureon? When you two argue like children, like not a day has aged either of you since you last saw each other?! What am I supposed to make of this? You realise that if he leaves and rejoins with Mortimer he has enough information to destroy us.”

“My lord,” Fiona interjects, “He won’t leave Mareon. Not yet, at least. We can still fix this.”

Chad takes a breath before he turns to her. “Our brilliant girl. What have you schemed up?”

Fiona beams. “As you know, I predicted this, and I prepared for the worst. I did a little research, and then I met with Diaz unofficially a few days ago. I asked him to escort me through the grounds, and in passing, I mentioned a place not so far from here. Lucky for us, it’s not a bad place to cool off from, say, a bad row with a half-brother. Alfredo won’t leave Mareon without going there first. If he’s left the palace grounds, that’s where he’ll be.”

Chad looks down to Trevor again. “Go calm down, Collins. And if you give a damn about your brother, you’ll ask Fiona where to go after.”

"I know where she's talking about," Trevor says, and he looks pointedly at Fiona. "I wouldn't look so proud to manipulate a man using a place like that, Lady Nova."


	12. Jeremy's Relaxing Day

All Jeremy wanted was a nice, relaxing day.

Half of Norte’s lords had written to him the past few days, demanding lands or favours or permissions or a new damn horse. Norte was full of hardy men and proud women; it wasn’t unusual for them to make demands of the Dooleys or even the king himself, but not so many, and not so frequent. He had spent the past two days stuck in his office juggling his own finances with appeasing the nobles. It was as if they were asking him to buy their loyalty.

And when he wasn’t in his office, he was bartering with Jones for a few square miles of farmland near the west coast of Norte. Hardly worth a scrap, but Jones was adamant there was something to discuss and trapped Jeremy for hours in negotiations.

So when Jeremy arrived in court this morning for the king’s council, he had hoped it was a break. He had hoped he can look forward to kicking back and relaxing and drinking while the king signs a few papers and moves on with his day. He doesn’t have anything in particular to ask of the king, and if anybody else has anything to raise with the Duke of Norte, they can add it to the pile.

His day had started off quite relaxing, truth be told. For once he made time to have breakfast with Katherine, his duchess. After that, he had bathed and then confined himself to his bedchamber with a new novel until council began. It was going so well.

But the first inclination that something is wrong comes with Matt just five minutes after Jeremy had arrived at the courtroom.

Matt is stiff and agitated when he enters the court, and he makes his way directly to his seat beside Jeremy without any discussion with other lords. Jeremy puts his cup down when Matt asks: “Have you heard from Alfredo?”

Jeremy chuckles. “He’s about the only one I haven’t been pestered by. Why?”

“There’s, um…” Matt’s eyes dart around the court. Quietly, he says, “There’s rumours.”

“Some disgruntled father finally beat him to death?” Jeremy asks. He snickers at his own joke and takes another sip of wine.

“They say he’s fled court to find his brother.”

A shower of wine falls over Jeremy’s papers. He sits mouth agape, staring at Matt’s uneasy face. He giggles nervously. “You’re joking, right?”

“People think the Collins heir is alive. I thought it was crazy too, but Alfredo wouldn’t run if he didn’t think it was real.”

“They’re just rumours though, right? Maybe Henry sent him off on some errand. You know how the commoners like to gossip.”

“And that’s another thing,” Matt worries, “The king, he…”

The king strides into court, and the nobles rise. Matt taps Jeremy rapidly but discretely, and Jeremy sees what Matt means. Henry looks stressed. More so than he ever has before – his usually neat hair is ruffled and he looks twitchy and agitated and one wrong word away from enraged.

The king is supposed to be the last person to arrive at the council, but looking around, many regular faces are missing. Alfredo, as Matt said, but also Michael Jones, Gavin Free, and a number of earls and barons, including some Norten ones. Something is going on and Jeremy is apparently the last person to hear about it.

Henry sits in his throne and says promptly, “I want every man present in this room to renew their pledges of fealty to me immediately.”

That could only be terrible news, and Jeremy almost groans. All he wants is a relaxing day.

The nobles and advisors take their turns in kneeling before the king and reciting their pledges, and all the while Henry stares intensely at every single one of them, searching for any sign of deception or disloyalty. When they are finished, Henry looks no calmer. He casts his eyes over the room and says, “Austur has declared itself against the crown.”

Austur? Gavin Free? _Megan Turney?_ The suggestion is baffling to Jeremy, and out of nowhere. What could possibly have turned them against the king? What could they possibly hope to achieve by waging war on the rest of the kingdom?

“Free is spreading the word that the old Ramsey king lives. I want to make myself very clear when I say that this is nothing more than a fabrication. Geoffrey Ramsey is dead. Anybody who says otherwise goes against their lord the king.”

Jeremy’s better judgement keeps his mouth clamped shut, even though he desperately wants to ask about the Collins heir. But as Henry goes on issuing clear warnings, Jeremy notices that the king’s knuckles are almost white as he grips the arms of his throne. The king is _afraid_.

Is the king lying? No, Jeremy doesn’t want to entertain the thought. To do so would almost be treason. But what else could have the king so concerned? Free is a wealthy duke, and the first major rebel against the king in all the years of his reign, but he is no great military commander, and he holds nowhere near the strength to take the capital alone. Even if he could, what exactly would he do? Overthrow the king? And put who on the throne?

And Jeremy’s thoughts loop straight back around in a circle. _Geoffrey_.

So the king is lying. The old king lives, and Gavin Free has declared for him over Henry. And if Alfredo believes Trevor Collins is alive, there must be a good reason for it – there is nobody else that could turn Alfredo away from the king but he wouldn’t believe a mere rumour. So both of them are alive, Ramsey and Collins, and probably allied with each other, and Free, and who knows how many others? Michael Jones has good reason to move against Mortimer – if he knows about Geoffrey, he’ll declare for him in a heartbeat. So that’s the east and the west united against the crownlands. And that’s the best-case scenario. Who’s to say the north will listen to Jeremy – they are by their very nature unruly. And Jeremy can only dread for Matt’s sake what Trevor Collins’ name will do in the south.

Jeremy only wanted a relaxing day. Now here he is weighing up a civil war.

Jeremy bursts into the queen’s quarters with a deeply distressed expression. The ladies within the room fluster and rise, curtseying low. Jeremy hardly processes their existence; his eyes go straight to his wife.

As the most senior noblewoman at court, due to the absence of a queen and being the only present duchess since Lindsay’s departure, Katherine sits central within the ladies, almost as if she were the queen herself. She rises from her seat and rushes to her husband. “Jeremy,” she says as she takes his quivering hand. “What’s happening?”

Jeremy casts his eyes around the other women. “Excuse us,” he says. The ladies curtsey again as Jeremy takes Katherine outside.

With the door firmly shut behind them, Jeremy wears his anxiety for all to see. “Kat…” he groans. “Oh, fuck, Kat…”

“What is it?”

Jeremy gulps and paces around. He runs his hands over his head and moans. Then, he gathers the courage to voice his concern. He takes his wife by the arms gently, meets her eyes and says, “War.”

“WAR?! With wh…?”

“Shush!” Jeremy gasps, looking to the room where the ladies were probably trying to listen in.

Kat shakes her head before quietly repeating, “With who?”

“I don’t know!” Jeremy throws his arms out. “Gavin Free, for certain. Most of Austur. Maybe Michael Jones and Veshire. And… Oh, fuck… Kat, I think Geoffrey Ramsey is alive.”

Kat stares, then laughs with her nerves. “That’s not… That’s not possible. It’s been fifteen years, Jeremy!”

“Yeah, I know, but the king’s freaking out and there’s nothing else that could set him off like that. Listen,” Jeremy cups his wife’s hands. “Whatever happens, you’re my first priority. Nobody is taking you from me. If that means we abandon the king, so be it, though I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Jeremy, you can’t talk like this. You swore you’d protect the king.”

“I’ve sworn a lot of things! I’ve sworn fealty to both the old king and the new at one point or another. I’ve sworn to keep the peace and ridden at the head of an army. Most importantly, I swore to protect and serve my wife. When push comes to shove, that is the oath I will keep with my dying breath if I have to.”

Kat smiles a weak smile. If the king heard this, it could be called treason, but Kat would be lying if her heart wasn’t elated at the thought that Jeremy served her above the king himself.

“We’re going home to prep our armies tomorrow, Kat,” Jeremy says. “We’ll prepare Jorven’s defences for a siege and call our men to march with me. I’ll leave you with enough good men to man our defences until I return. I know you can be the leader our people will need to outlast any threat. You’ll do this for me, Kat, won’t you? No matter how frightened you may be, you can be my duchess of steel for our people?”

“Of course. But you?”

“I have no choice but to come south until one king’s cause is truly lost. Norte will fight for the true king, of course, but it won’t fall, I swear it. We won’t fall.”


	13. No Choice

Trevor reads the gravestones as he passes with sombre silence, the names of the commonfolk who had lived and died here decades, even centuries before Trevor had been born. 538 was a bad year – a harsh plague had swept through Mareon that summer, if he recalls correctly. Many graves bear that horrid year.

Thunder cracks above him. He looks up to the grey skies above the city, squinting as the raindrops hit his face. The graveyard is almost empty as the usual mourners flocked home to avoid the weather. Now it is like only gods above mourn the dead. With the rain comes an unusual cold, and for once Trevor is thankful for the heavy cloak at his shoulders.

He finds Alfredo in the more recent part of the graveyard. Here the graves are mostly better kept, and the names and dates are easier to make out. One or two graves even have fresh flowers.

Alfredo is sat before the best kept grave of all, despite bearing a simple headstone. It displays: ‘DIAZ. DIED 16th MAY 577’. At the base of the headstone is a small bouquet of white tulips. Alfredo is holding one of them, running the petals between his fingers while he sits in silence.

Trevor sits beside him. Alfredo glances, but neither say anything for a while. Trevor watches the raindrops fall down the stone while Alfredo stares at his mother’s name.

“I didn’t know her,” Trevor begins quietly. “I mean, obviously. You didn’t even know her. But… I used to come here sometimes to talk to her. My parents don’t exactly have graves, at least, not marked ones, and neither did you, so… Your mother was really all I could visit. Lucky she’s so close.”

“She died in that palace,” Alfredo says. Trevor nods. “You left these?” Alfredo asks, motioning to the flowers.

“Not this week. I haven’t been since you arrived. But when I don’t visit, I pay for fresh flowers and the upkeep of the grave. The king said she liked these kinds of flowers.”

“How well could Geoffrey have known her?”

Trevor shrugs. “He said she liked them. And he says Father was quite taken with her. Wanted to take her back to Solpeak and set her up there with you. I can believe it. Let’s be honest, your mother was probably a breath of fresh air compared to mine.”

“Poison gas would be a breath of fresh air compared to your mother.”

“Don’t push it,” Trevor says sternly. He looks over to his brother and finds Alfredo’s eyebrow raised at him. He glances away again, shrugs and says, “But you’re not wrong.”

Alfredo nudges him and smiles. “So what did you say to her when you visited?”

“To your mother? That’s private.”

“Come on. Nothing you can’t say in front of me, right?”

“No, nothing like… I mean, what do you say at the grave of a woman you never met? I guess I came here just to think out loud and feel like somebody was listening. Sometimes I asked her to say hi to Father, or to you.” Trevor smiles at himself. “If she could hear me, she must have been laughing at my ignorance. Though I doubt she’d listen to my rambling at all if she could be watching over you instead.”

“I know. I’m much more entertaining.”

“Oh, really? Come on now.”

“It’s true.”

Trevor laughs and rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.” He takes a moment, then turns his head back to Alfredo. “About what I said, back at the palace. It came out wrong.”

“I know what you meant.” Alfredo makes a soft sigh and starts to explore the flower in his hands again. “It’s not that easy for me either. Maybe I’m not a threat to anyone, and maybe that’s why Henry is willing to keep me around, but I’m tangled up in this web as much as anybody. I can’t walk away either. Maybe nobody would try to kill me but I have a lot to lose.”

“So we have no choice,” Trevor says. He sighs and looks to the grey skies, thinking in silence. After a while he says, “I wish Father was still here. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Alfredo nods but stays silent. His eyes drift back to the headstone, and they stay there.

“We should go back to the palace,” Trevor says. He gives a light, nervous chuckle and says, “If we stay here much longer in this weather, we’ll wind up back here permanently.”

“Yeah,” Alfredo says softly.

“I can leave you with her for a minute, if you like?” Trevor asks. Alfredo nods. Trevor stands, nods his head in sombre respect towards the grave, and he walks away.

Alfredo runs his hands over the petals of the tulip a few more times, then he places it carefully back onto the grave. “Goodbye, Mother,” he whispers. He bows his head to her, rises, and leaves her to her rest.

They return to the palace to find a flustered Fiona waiting by the gates for them. The moment she sees them, she rushes to Trevor and takes his arm and says, “You need to come! You need to come to the library now!”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s Gavin,” she says, her voice shaking. “It’s Gavin Free.”

Trevor explodes into the library, where Jack and Geoff are leaning over a great sprawled-out map of Acheon and Duke James is pacing around with an open letter in his hand. Fiona follows and makes her way to Jack’s side, biting her nails nervously. Alfredo hovers behind his brother.

“What’s happening?” Trevor asks.

Chad shakes his head, marches towards him and shoves a letter in his hand. “Gavin Free has declared himself against Mortimer. He’s all but started a damn war without us!”

Trevor reads with wide, terrified eyes. “But we’re not ready! We told him to wait, didn’t we?”

“He had no choice, apparently,” Chad growls.

“Henry was suspicious of him,” Alfredo says with a low voice.

Trevor rounds on him. “You knew this?! And you didn’t tell us?”

Alfredo freezes. He knows of Henry’s suspicions because they arose from Free’s attempts to smuggle letters to _him_. “I assumed they’d settle this on their own. Henry hasn’t had any significant trouble with nobles for a decade. How could I anticipate that Free would go this far?”

King Geoffrey narrows his eyes at the bastard. Clearly, not a convincing lie. “Maybe it would be best if the Diaz boy retires to his rooms until dinner?” he suggests.

“My brother stays with me,” Trevor retorts.

“No, I’ll go,” Alfredo says. It is much easier to withhold knowledge and truths from people when you never acquire it in the first place. Alfredo bows to the old king and retreats.

Trevor frowns, then hands the letter back to the duke. “So what do we do?”

“We can’t leave him,” Jack says.

“No,” Geoffrey agrees. “But the wind won’t be favourable for westward travel for much longer. If we want to land our armies in Austur before then, we need to move quickly. My lord, how many ships do we have ready?”

“Not enough,” Chad admits, “Perhaps only three hundred.”

“It’ll have to do,” Geoffrey says. “Trevor, when we land, you will try to raise Sureon in your favour.”

Trevor sweeps into a bow. “I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”

The king nods. “Hopefully Jones will uphold his promise. That just leaves the Dooleys and Mortimer himself.”

“If I may,” Jack says, “I can meet with Dooley. From what I’ve heard, he’s a brash young man, and Dooleys have been swayed before.”

Geoffrey nods again, staring at the map. He is thinking. “Thank you,” he says, “But I’ll have to consider it when I have more information. I won’t have you riding off into dangerous territory, Pattillo.”

“Your Grace,” Jack concedes.

“We have no choice,” Geoffrey says, “We sail within the week. James, Collins, prepare the fleet. I have some letters to write.”

When Alfredo steps into his rooms, he hears a crumple below his foot. A letter. A small letter slid under his door.

He shuts the door and locks it quickly and quietly, and grabs the paper from the floor and takes it to the desk. The seal is plain and unmarked, but Alfredo doesn’t need to guess who sent it.

He opens it without any hesitation. The letter is short and the writing hasty.

‘ _Alfredo,_

_The information you have passed on to our spies is not satisfactory. Tomorrow you will receive an official summons. Return to Wynrun on the next ship or I will be forced to denounce you as a traitor. I will question you privately when you arrive. Burn this letter._

_HRH King Henry I of Acheon._ ’


	14. The Collins Heir

“It’s an official summons,” Alfredo says as Duke James reads, “I can’t ignore it.”

“Damn it. Damn him,” the duke growls, shoving the letter back into Alfredo’s grasp. He paces around his throne in thought.

“Don’t go,” Trevor says quickly. “If you stay, people will believe us, or me at least. With you by my side, anybody loyal to the Collins name is certain to turn out for us. We can rally the south against Bragg!”

Alfredo shakes his head. “If I stay, Henry will name me a traitor, and anybody loyal to him will be within their rights to arrest me. If they do that, they’ll take me to him and I’ll be executed. I’ll be useless to you; leaving your side would be to risk my life.”

“And if you go and Mortimer discovers your true loyalties, he’ll execute you then,” Trevor argues. “You’re choosing to live with an axe over you instead of on the other side of the battlefield.”

“He’s right,” the duke sighs, “He has to go. He’s no use to us if Henry declares him a traitor. He’ll go back to Acheon, right to the centre of Mortimer’s court, and he’ll feed us information. That’s the best thing he can do for us now. When the time is right, he can join us again. Until then, it’s best to do what Mortimer asks of him.”

“You want me to send the only family I have left back into the arms of the man who had my parents murdered, who tried to murder _me?!_ ” Trevor snaps.

“I’ll be safe,” Alfredo assures him, “If Henry wanted to kill me, he would have killed me years ago, when I was first brought to him, or when I reached adulthood.”

“And what makes you think he isn’t looking for an excuse to kill you? You ran away from court without his permission, and he probably knows the rumours about Geoffrey and I. Maybe that’s enough for him.”

“He won’t kill me, Trevor. He raised me.”

Trevor scoffs. “I’ll trust that when I see it.”

“Collins,” the duke snaps. “Alfredo will be safe, and if we believe any danger will come to him, we will write to him with forewarning. And, of course, I’m assuming Diaz has the good sense to know when to run.”

Alfredo nods at the compliment. “Have a little faith in me, Trevor. I’ll come back to you.”

Trevor glares at the two of them, then yields. “When will you go?”

“The summons says immediately. I’ll take the next ship bound for Acheon via Whiteport. At least then you know I’ll be in friendly territory when I reach land.”

“Well,” Chad says, “If you see Free, tell him we’re sending reinforcements within the week.”

“I don’t intend to stop, my lord. There is a time limit for me to get back to Wynrun before Henry will be suspicious of me, and Free is declared against him. If I’m late on account of visiting him, or if he finds out, Henry will arrest me on the spot.”

With a slight nod, the duke says, “Fair enough. I’ll have a messenger on a different ship then. Alfredo, you’ve been a pleasure to host, and if you ever need refuge, Mareon will always open her gates for you.”

Alfredo bows low, and the duke nods his farewell and leaves the throne room.

“I don’t like it,” Trevor says.

“I didn’t expect you to, but hey, you want the dukedom, and this is how I help you get it,” Alfredo says. Trevor grits his teeth, but stays silent. “I need to see the king before I go,” Alfredo adds.

“Privately?” Trevor asks. Alfredo nods, and Trevor frowns. “Okay,” he says, “Go. I’ll have them prepare our horses. Meet me in the courtyard; I’ll take you down to the docks myself.”

Geoffrey hears the knock at his door and calls to enter. The bastard is the one who steps through, looking pale and jittery. He bows, but Geoffrey knows it is just a courtesy. He gestures for Alfredo to take a seat.

“Mortimer wants you home already?” he asks. The bastard nods once. “Hm. He’ll have you denounce us, call us liars, pretenders, all that, won’t he?”

“That’s what he wants, yes,” Alfredo admits.

Geoffrey chuckles, then he leans forward. “And what would it cost for you to tell the truth?”

“My head, probably, Your Grace.”

“No,” Geoffrey says, “Mortimer won’t execute you. Not for that. So I ask again, what would it cost for you to tell the truth?”

Alfredo shakes his head. “Your Grace, there’s nothing that I want other than Trevor’s safety, and you can’t guarantee that.”

“Hm,” Geoffrey chuckles. “No. But I can legitimise you.”

Alfredo freezes, and even forgets for a moment who he is speaking to. “What?!”

“Legitimise you. I can make you a Collins, and since you’re older, you’ll take Trevor’s place as heir. You’ll put yourself in the way of any danger that could come to him. A second son is hardly a target in battle, but an heir?” Geoffrey tilts his head. “Well, your family’s enemies would go to great lengths to see an _heir_ dead.”

Alfredo narrows his eyes. “I’m not a Collins, and I don’t want land, let alone a duchy.”

Geoffrey smiles and waves his hand as if his concerns were nothing. “I can revoke it the moment I take my crown, along with any laws Mortimer has passed in my kingdom. I can put you aside for your brother at any time. I can even leave you legitimised but bar you and your heirs from the duchy’s line of succession. It’s been done before, bastards legitimised and beginning their own houses, but I intend for Trevor to take your father’s place, not you.”

Alfredo narrows his eyes. “And you think this will keep Trevor safe?”

“No,” the king admits, “He’ll be a Collins in Mortimer territory; he will never be safe, regardless of where he stands in the succession. But I think you can draw the focus from him. That is, if you tell Acheon who is really coming for them.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You stay a bastard, your brother stays as heir, and Mortimer will do everything in his power to end him.”

“Unless I persuade him that you really are nothing but pretenders.”

Geoffrey scoffs. “You won’t. You didn’t convince me, and you won’t convince him if there’s anything to him.”

Alfredo scowls, but the king is right. Alfredo can’t lie to the king’s face, not a lie as significant as this; Henry is no idiot, he’ll see right through him.

“I like you, Alfredo,” the king says, softening up. “And not just for Trevor’s sake. Your heart is in the right place, even if your allegiance is… questionable. And I loved your parents too, so at least for their sake, I want to see you through this war if I can. But Alfredo, you can only go so far with Mortimer’s cause before I can’t forgive you. I am a fair ruler, and a fair ruler does not punish all of his enemies but one. And without land, without titles, without an inheritance of your own to strip away, there are only so many ways I can punish you. Don’t make it come to that, Alfredo. So by all means, return to Mortimer, but I want you to at least consider doing so as one of ours, not one of his. If not for me, then for Trevor and your family.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

The king gives a sincere smile. “Good lad. You should be on your way. Oh, but one more thing!” Geoffrey stands and hurries to one of his draws. He drags it open and rummages through quickly, then pulls something out and returns to Alfredo.

The king gives him a small piece of silver metal, though age has taken the shine from it. It is a brooch for a cloak, and when Alfredo turns it over, he finds it is delicately carved into a blooming tulip. “Your father gave that to your mother shortly after they met,” the king says. “It was still on her cloak when she died. It may be the last possession of hers that we have. Chad’s father had it stored and gave it to me shortly after I arrived, but I think it would be better if I passed it on to you. Wear it openly; Mortimer won’t understand the significance anyway. No houses in Acheon bear the tulip on their sigil.”

“Thank you,” Alfredo says. He’ll fasten it to his cloak when he returns to his room, just above the brooch that Henry had given him years ago, a golden bar that he always used to clip his cloak around his shoulders. He doesn’t have the heart to remove Henry’s gift in favour of Geoffrey’s, so his cloak will just have to be twice as secure, he decides.

“I would have given it to you sooner, but I couldn’t find the damn thing,” Geoffrey admits as he slides back into his seat. “Anyway, I believe that concludes your business with me for now, unless you have anything else to say?”

Alfredo stands and goes down on one knee to the old king, bowing his head. “Good luck, Your Grace,” he says sincerely.

“You too, Diaz.”

Alfredo rises and makes his way to the door. He pauses, then looks back to the king and with genuine concern he says, “Take care of my little brother. Don’t let Henry get to him.”

“I’ll keep him close,” Geoffrey promises. It’s the best Alfredo can ask for, so he nods, bows, and steps outside.

He finds himself buried in the arms of Jack in a warm and sincere hug. “Be careful,” Jack says, “I want to see you and Trevor take your places in Sureon. Be careful, and have a safe journey.”

Alfredo doesn’t know the man well, but his concern and his optimism are comforting in a world with few reassurances. “You too,” Alfredo says, “I’ll see you again.”

Jack pulls away, pushes his glasses back onto his nose and sniffles. “Go do your father proud, Alfredo.”

Trevor is silent for almost the whole trip down to the docks. His eyes float around the city he has lived in but never truly seen, but he is not in the mood to be awed or interested in any of it. Alfredo doesn’t speak either for shame until he sees the fleet of ships that sit in Mareon’s bay. There are hundreds, easily, and men run to and fro to supply them, stocking food and ammunition and weapons.

He freezes, as for the first time it truly hits him what is coming. This is an invasion fleet, and they are arming to destroy Henry, and Matt, and Jeremy, and almost everyone Alfredo has known. And these men will answer to Trevor. Trevor will lead them into battle, and Trevor will put his neck on the line for this war and his duchy.

Alfredo looks over at his little brother, who sits tall on his horse. He watches the men with a cool gaze. Here, Trevor looks every bit the commander he needs to be, and he isn’t even there for them.

“You look like Father,” Alfredo comments.

Trevor glances over, and the corner of his mouth betrays him as it twitches into a slight smile. Then his face sets again, and he looks back out over his fleet. “Father wouldn’t let you go.”

“Father would send me wherever I’m most beneficial to the family. Right now, that’s Mortimer’s court.”

Trevor’s face twists in a grimace. “Stop saying it. I can’t stand the thought of you there alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” Alfredo says. “I grew up there. I have friends in his court. As long as Henry doesn’t find out my loyalties, there’s no place I would be safer.”

“And if he does find out?” Trevor demands. Alfredo can’t answer. “Father always said you belonged by my side.”

“I don’t think he meant that literally, Trevor.”

“Well I’m fairly certain he didn’t mean you belong over the sea in a viper’s pit either,” Trevor growls. He halts his horse and dismounts, and Alfredo slides off his own to join him. Trevor points to a little ship. “That one’s a merchant ship, and a quick little thing, especially with the wind in your favour like this. It will have you in Whiteport by dusk tomorrow, and if the river is smooth sailing too, you should be in Wynrun the next dawn.”

“And when will you follow me?”

“As soon as our ships are ready. A week, we hope, and we’ll land in Whiteport to support Free. After that, all being well, we’ll march west to the crownlands. You should leave Mortimer if we defeat him in Austur. Mortimer could arrest you and hold you for my surrender. Don’t let that happen.”

“I know when to run, Trevor. Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself, and Geoffrey. I’ll be fine. Hey, the next time I see you, I might have to bow to you and call you ‘my lord’.”

“King Geoffrey recognises me as duke already, so really you should be doing all that now.”

Alfredo laughs and dips into a mock bow. “In that case, ‘my lord’…”

“Stop. Consider this an official pardon from any of that. ‘Trevor’ to you and nothing else.”

Alfredo straightens up and smiles at him. “What about ‘baby brother’?”

Trevor tilts his head side to side as if considering. “Pushing it, Fredo,” he says, then pulls him into a hug. “Go home, Frey. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon,” Alfredo promises. He pulls away, takes his horse’s reigns and leads her towards the ship.

Trevor watches him board, then climbs back into his saddle. He may as well look the part of a commander while he watches his brother leave his side again, leaving him with the familiar feeling of being alone in the world, the last Collins.


	15. Whiteport

The court of Whiteport is as busy today as it had been for the past week, ever since Gavin declared against the king and closed the port off and cut the rest of the country off from their imports. Ever since, minor Austur lords had been coming to him to prepare for a siege, as much to defend themselves and their families from the king’s armies as much as Whiteport.

Besides them, countless ship captains had come to the duke, demanding passage to the kingdom. Most of them can be paid off; money is no object to Gavin. Austur’s fields are fertile and very profitable, its population the largest of all of the great dukedoms, and his family have controlled the largest port in the kingdom for three generations. He offers the captains a sum equal in value to the cargo of their ship, and that is enough to send most of them happily back to their ships and away from Acheon. There are those that still demand passage, however, and to those, he first warns and then seizes their ships. It is a harsh punishment, but war is coming, and Gavin has no time for over-demanding captains.

Today is no different. Gavin sits at his court with Meg on his left, and he listens to reports on the progress of the city’s defences, the gathering of his own forces, and the king’s preparations for retaliation, and then he listens to those who come to him with grievances and wants.

Usually, Meg would take an active part in court life. She would ask questions, deliberate with Gavin, and dispense fairness, justice or aid wherever she could. Often, she would even seek out those who had come to her previously to follow up. Now, however, she sits beside Gavin as is her duty as his duchess, but she stays silent. She sits back with her hands clutching the arms of her throne, and she watches court business with a gaze of stone. She does not smile or ever display any warmth. She is like a duchess of ice.

Gavin does his best to appear a charismatic but serious leader in the face of war for his people’s sake, but any time he looks to his duchess his heart sinks. He feels like a lost, scolded child around her. In the past, he had looked to her for strength. Now, her very gaze seems to sap him of it. He feels exposed without her support. It must be blatantly obvious to his court where her loyalties lie, and they are not with Gavin. Hopefully, his men are loyal to the Free name and cause over their powerful duchess, but he can’t be sure.

She has been even worse behind closed doors. She won’t even sleep in the same bed as him anymore. She dines with her ladies over her husband consistently, and if she must speak with him, she answers him with cold, short replies. It is as if she cannot stand his mere presence. It hurts more than any slap to the face.

Gavin is listening to the complaints of yet another captain when the court doors open. The duke gawps at who strides through, and even Meg leans forward slightly. The court falls into silence, then murmurs, and even the pleading captain falls back.

The bastard of Sureon strides through the court, drops into a bow, then crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at Gavin.

“Alfredo,” Gavin says with what he attempts to keep as a level voice, though he can’t help a slight upward inflexion with his surprise.

“Are you going to let my ship through, Free?”

Gavin’s eyes cast around the court quickly. He clears his throat, then looks to Meg. “You can carry on without me for a little while, sweetie?”

She grits her teeth and glares at the bastard for no other reason than to avoid meeting Gavin’s eyes. She tilts her head slightly in his direction and gives a small nod. Gavin squeezes her hand affectionately, then rises and gestures for Alfredo to follow.

He takes him to an office just behind his public courtroom, an empty room save for the two of them. Gavin locks the door behind them as Alfredo asks, “Trouble in paradise?”

“None of your business. Now tell me, did you meet him?”

“Him?”

“The king! Geoffrey! Did you meet him?!” Gavin asks with wide, shining eyes. Alfredo nods. “And? Is he like how they say he was? Fair and gracious and wise?”

“He’s… kingly.”

“He’s the anointed and rightful king of Acheon; of course he’s kingly! Ah, forget it. Why are you back?”

Alfredo draws a small parchment from his pocket. “Official summons.”

Gavin takes the paper, skims through it, then throws it back. “Mortimer. He’s not the true king; if you obey that, you’re declaring yourself against Geoffrey.”

“Geoffrey wants me to go,” Alfredo rebukes.

“Why would he want that? You’re Mortimer’s ward.”

“Mortimer’s ward is more useful to you than a bastard declared a traitor by him. I can learn things your spies never could. That’s what the duke wants, anyway.”

“The duke?” Gavin asks.

“James.”

“Ah,” Gavin nods. “But you met the other one too, your brother, yes?” Alfredo casts his eyes down and nods. Gavin cocks his head in confusion. “I thought you’d be happy about that. You didn’t know he was alive, did you?”

“How could I?”

“Diaz, Mortimer and the entire kingdom have believed he was dead for fifteen years based on no evidence but your own testimony, which means if you believed it, you believed it with none at all.”

“I was a kid,” Alfredo fires back, “He disappeared on the same day that the rest of my house were slaughtered; what else was I supposed to think?”

“And you didn’t question it as you grew up?”

“And give myself false hope? No.”

Gavin shakes his head as if Alfredo had said something ridiculous. “I always had hope. I knew we were just biding our time.”

“Kiss up to Geoffrey, not me,” Alfredo says, “I need to get to Wynrun before Henry gets any more suspicious of me; I didn’t intend to stop here. Will you let my ship through or not?”

Gavin narrows his eyes at the bastard. The two had been somewhat close growing up. Gavin’s father hated Mortimer and the Braggs, and over time grew to hate the Dooleys for their newfound undying loyalty to the Mortimer king, as if Dooley loyalty means anything anyway. As far as noble families went, Alfredo was about the only major noble child at court that Gavin was even allowed near, let alone actively pushed towards by his family. Gavin remembered his father reminiscing fondly about Alfredo’s father; the two had been close allies and friends during Geoffrey and his father’s reign, and Gavin’s father even mentioned behind closed doors his desire to restore the Collins house through the bastard. But Gavin’s father is gone now, and over time, Mortimer won even Diaz over, and Gavin could not stomach friendship with a bastard who finds loyalty for the man who slaughtered his own family. Meg, he could forgive, but she was different. Diaz’ loyalties should be with Geoffrey and Trevor.

But perhaps they are. Gavin can’t tell whether Alfredo is telling the truth about his loyalties, or even what he knew about Trevor and Geoffrey. All these years, could the bastard have been playing a long game with Mortimer? Feigning friendship while plotting his downfall? But wouldn’t Geoffrey have mentioned that if it were true? Gavin isn’t sure, but he lets wishful thinking cloud his decision.

“The port is closed to all ships,” Gavin says clearly. Before Alfredo can protest, he adds, “But I can give you a good horse; you can leave Whiteport by road. I take it you’ll be able to find your own way back?”

“I don’t need a horse, I have my own from James, and you could probably use every horse you can get right now.”

Gavin’s lip pulls up in a smirk. “Alright,” he concedes. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small silver seal bearing the Free symbol of a soaring hawk. He flicks towards Alfredo, who catches it with a single hand while Gavin explains, “Give that to them at the gate. It’s the only thing that they’ll open up for.”

“Thank you,” Alfredo says. “James told me he is sending reinforcements to you within the week, so maybe we’ll see each other again.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Gavin says. “Austur won’t fall, not to a Mortimer. Good luck with the king, Diaz.”

“Good luck with your wife. I think you’ll need it more than I will.”

Trevor paces the docks like a caged animal. He stares out over the sea that has always held him safely away from his home and pines to finally see the other side of it. Preparations for their invasion are coming along well, or so Chad tells him, but not nearly fast enough for Trevor’s liking.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” he hears. Trevor halts his pacing for long enough to nod respectfully at Jack. The older gentleman draws closer and leans against a barrel ready for boarding one of the nearby ships. “You seem agitated,” Jack says.

“I can’t stand it. I just can’t stand it!” Trevor howls.

“You’ve stood it for all these years. What’s a few more days?”

“That was different,” Trevor worries, “I didn’t know about Fredo, and we’ve just sent him back into the clutches of that monster! And Free is over there starting a war without us! What if the battle happens before we land?! Or what if Mortimer mobilises quickly, or we overestimated support for Geoffrey?”

Jack waves his hands before him. “Trevor, Trevor, calm down, I can hardly keep up. You’re overthinking this.”

“We’re at war!”

“And great generals don’t win wars by worrying and panicking like this. Caution and concern are natural, but this… This mental state is counterproductive at best.”

Trevor doesn’t seem to be listening, but instead thinking. He wags a finger at Jack as a thought comes, “What if I go ahead with some of our forces? Half of them, maybe?”

“Absolutely not, Trevor.”

“Why the hell not? I’m useless here! Over there, at least I can support Free or begin to rally the south.”

Jack shakes his head firmly but with a solemn look. “No, Trevor. Because if we lose Free, taking the throne back will be difficult. If we lose you too, it will be impossible.” Jack approaches and places his hands on the young duke’s drooping shoulders. “Your time will come, Trevor, but for now, ease off a little. There’s nothing you can do.”

Trevor takes a deep breath and shakes his head a little. “If you were me, do you think you’d be able to sit still and wait?”

Jack smiles softly. “You mean if I were a young man with his whole future to forge? No, I don’t think I would have been able to.” He turns his head to the sea, watching the waves lap against the dock, and he frowns. “Wind’s changing,” he murmurs, mostly to himself than to Trevor. Then he pats Trevor’s shoulder and smiles for him. “Come on, come back to the palace with me. If we must wait, we may as well do so in comfort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter is a little later than my usual gap between updates. I had a short break from writing to avoid a burnout, but I'm back to it :) I'll get to my other fics in the coming days.
> 
> Edit: Reading back, I realised I made a strong reference to one of my other fics and a weak reference to the other one in the same line. I wish it was intentional but I don't think I have the skill to have dropped the reference so well together if I planned it. Still, no shame.


	16. Falsehoods

When Alfredo approaches Wynrun, for once the great castle in the centre that guards the river crossing is not the first thing he sees. Rather, it is the huge camp of soldiers waiting just outside the city’s eastern walls. There are thousands of them, with standards fluttering above them of every colour imaginable. The largest one is, of course, the king’s standard, in bright red and gold, but others are prominent too, notably Jones’ silver and black, and the Bragg grey and blue.

These are the men that will soon march east to face Gavin Free in battle, and the men that will meet the forces of Geoffrey and Trevor too.

He stops his thoughts there. He doesn’t want to think about the possible outcomes of that battle.

He rides into the city by the northern gate, avoiding the growing army. The northern side of the city is nicer than the eastern side anyway; merchants populated this area and brought with them the riches of the world, so the best food, entertainment, inns and brothels are found here. Alfredo knows the thin streets of this part of the city well, and he uses them to reach the castle quickly and without drawing too much attention.

The courtyard of the castle is no quieter. Men and horses and carts and supplies come and go constantly, and there is little to be heard other than hooves and the shouting of commands.

Alfredo dismounts and hands his horse to a stable boy, and he barely pauses to toss the boy a coin and order the horse to be well watered and fed before he charges through the doors and heads straight for Henry’s office. Nobody tries to stop him, but he notices the shocked expressions of many of the nobles and servants who glance his face as he passes.

He finds the door to the king’s chambers guarded by two pikemen, who close their weapons before the door to deny him. “King’s busy,” one says.

Alfredo draws his hood down, and he knows he sees recognition in their eyes. “I’m the king’s ward. He summoned me.”

The two guards look to each other and one nods. One knocks hard on the king’s door, steps inside and bows. Alfredo can’t see inside, but he hears the guard say, “Your Grace, the Diaz bastard is here.”

After a moment, the king’s voice responds warmly. “Send him in.”

The doors are opened fully and Alfredo strides before the king, who is sat behind his desk working through a series of parchments. Alfredo kneels a few paces before the desk as the doors slam closed behind him, leaving him alone Henry.

“You’re back early,” the king comments.

“You summoned me, Your Grace,” Alfredo says.

Henry raises an eyebrow. “Hm. My spy didn’t trust you then.”

“Spy?” Alfredo asks. He wants to kick himself – of course Henry sent a spy after him. He sent him, probably knowingly, into the arms of his younger brother. It was a test, and one, it seems, he failed. He planned to rise, but now he stays on his knee respectfully.

“I sent her on a separate ship after you with those two letters. She watched you while you were there. I told her if she thought you were too close to the individuals calling themselves Ramsey and Collins, she should slip them to you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect it so soon. So either you were a convincing actor while you gained their trust, or your friendliness was genuine. Tell me, Diaz, which is it?”

Alfredo’s head tilts upwards quickly. “Your Grace, you can’t question my loyalty to you?”

“Free is stopping ships in Whiteport. Supposedly, he’s not letting anybody through, nor any supplies, so you didn’t smuggle your way through. Certainly, my spy doesn’t seem to have made it. So how did you cross through Whiteport, Alfredo?”

“Free questioned me, Your Grace. He questioned me about what I saw in Mareon, and who I met.”

“And you told him…?” Henry prompts.

“I lied to him, Your Grace. I showed him your summons and said I was returning as a spy for the Duke of Mareon, Chad James. I think he believed me. He believed me well enough to let me through. I’m in a position to provide them both with false information, Your Grace.”

The king nods and ponders. “And when I summon the court, and I ask you what you found in Mareon, what will you say?”

“They’re no threat to you, Henry, I swear. They are just pretenders.”

“And still they haunt me,” the king sighs. “So how many men? What do they command?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. A thousand, at least.” It is an easy lie for Alfredo – he never personally saw more than a few hundred men at a time, though the number of ships certainly implies larger forces were being gathered elsewhere. “The Duke of Mareon’s forces, and maybe a few mercenaries, but I didn’t see the support of any of the other great duchies of the continent or any from Acheon, except for Free’s declared support.”

Henry nods with furrowed brows, pacing around his desk. He crouches to Alfredo’s level and takes the new broach on his cloak between his fingers. “What impressive craftsmanship,” he murmurs.

Alfredo recoils and covers the broach quickly. Too quickly. Henry narrows his eyes in suspicion. “It was a gift from the Duke of Mareon,” Alfredo lies quickly. “He said it was made for my mother. She died there. I wear it for her, Your Grace, not him.”

“Hm,” Henry says. He stands straight again, and Alfredo ducks his head down. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some of my own mother’s trinkets scattered around. She died when I was young too. It’s reassuring even at my age to have a part of her around,” he laments as he paces to the back of his office, where his fingers brush over a ring on a fine chain. He sighs softly. “Your father got her killed, you know?”

“My father?”

“Ah, it must have been about a year before you were born, and hardly overt. She was riding out to meet with myself and my father, and your father caught up to her. He chased her to the sea, and my mother boarded a small boat, but there was a storm. Nobody saw her or any of her companions who got on that boat since. Presumed drowned, they said.”

Alfredo is pale as he stands, bows his head and says, “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Henry dismisses his pity with a wave of his hand. “All nasty business, but I’m sure you know the other side of the story. How my grandfather executed your great-grandfather, and your great-great-uncle slaughtered my great-grandfather in battle, and countless other wrongs. A blood-feud, a horrid blood feud lasting for centuries. When I took Acheon, I never wanted harm to come to its people. But your father… I suppose you wouldn’t know what it is to lose a mother, Alfredo, especially not so suddenly and brutally. Though perhaps you could argue that we are united in that your father killed both of our mothers. In any case, you understand why I had to do what I did to your house, don’t you? I just wanted to end it all, and it was your house or mine.”

“I do, Sire,” Alfredo says solemnly, then he rises to his feet. “But I do have one question.” The king slumps back down into his seat with a raised eyebrow, inquisitive. “You ordered your men to kill my father and my step-mother, I know that, but what about me and Trevor? What was the order?”

The king’s eyes cast down to the floor. “To capture you, of course.”

“Then why did your men try to execute me when they believed I was Trevor?”

“Unruly men,” the king answers quickly, waving a hand dismissingly. “Battle makes monsters of them. I probably had them punished.”

Alfredo narrows his eyes. “And if you had captured us both? What would have happened to us?”

“Now we’re getting into ‘would-have's, Alfredo?”

“Henry,” Alfredo insists, “If there was an order to capture us, there must have been a plan on what to do with us once you had us.”

The king throws his hands into the air, then slams the desk. “My gods, Alfredo, I don’t know! Maybe I had a plan back then, but you’re asking me about thoughts I had fifteen years ago! Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter; your brother is dead, is he not? And not by my hand. And you surely can’t complain about the way that you were treated after your capture.”

“You would have executed him, wouldn’t you?” Alfredo accuses.

“No!” Henry roars. "I would never have a child put to death!"

“But you said so yourself, Your Grace, you wanted to end the blood feud. You’re an intelligent man; you must have had the pattern-recognition abilities to see that if you killed our father and left Trevor alive, he would come to kill you as soon as he reached maturity. You’re a good and merciful king, Henry, but you’re no fool. If you captured him, you would have thrown him in Highkeep Castle until his eighteenth birthday, and then you would have executed him. Maybe me too, as a caution.”

“What do you want from me?” Henry asks.

“Honesty, Your Grace. We’ve never spoken about what happened back then. You’re my king, Henry, and you always will be, but you took everything I had that day and we can’t go on pretending that I was born into your household and that never happened. Right now and for a long time you’ve been the closest thing to a father figure I have; we need to talk about this. You and your men frightened me so much I didn’t sleep well for months. Sometimes I even have nightmares now. So be honest with me Henry; if your men had found two frightened dark-haired children in Solpeak castle, would they have spared them or killed them?”

The king sighs. “What did you see in Mareon that has you asking all of this?”

“I saw some idiot pretending to be my baby brother,” Alfredo says sharply. “Tell me your men would have killed him had they found him. I can’t stand hoping that he might still be alive somewhere.”

Henry nods slowly. He closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “Yes, Alfredo. If my men ever found Trevor Collins, the order was to kill him. I had to end it.”

“And do you think they did?” Alfredo demands, “Find him and kill him?” He clings desperately to a foolish hope that maybe he did meet an imposter. It would make the upcoming war so much less painful. But he knows the answer Henry will give before he gives it, and he knows, as much as he wishes to deny it, that Trevor Collins lives.

“There were rumours at the time. Probably stupid soldiers hoping for a reward for ‘killing’ the Collins heir. But no, without a body, or any solid proof, I don’t believe that Trevor Collins died that day. I never truly did.”

Alfredo nods his acceptance.

“So,” the king continues, “I have to ask again, do you believe you saw your brother while you were away?”

At that, Alfredo keeps a stoic face as he shakes his head. “No, Your Grace. The man by the Duke of Mareon’s side is not my brother. I’m sure of that. But…” Alfredo ponders continuing his thought, but the king is reasonable, and he looks open. Maybe… Maybe it will work. “If Trevor is alive, and he reached out to us and he asked for nothing but a safe return to Sureon, would you give him that? If he swore fealty to you?”

The king taps on his desk as he turns the hypothetical proposition over in his head. “And what would he do here? He can’t take the duchy.”

“Give him some of the lands you offered to me. Make him a minor baron. Your Grace, you never knew my brother. He wasn’t a warrior like my father, he was thoughtful and intelligent but not a fighter. He would never come against you.”

“With all due respect, Alfredo, you knew your brother when he was four years old. If he yet lives, he’d be, what, nineteen or twenty by now? Frightened little boys often mature into great knights, fighters, warriors and leaders. You yourself are evidence of that.”

“But you would consider it?” Alfredo asks. “For me, Your Grace?”

Henry smiles a weary smile. “I would consider it,” he promises, “If Trevor Collins makes himself known to us peacefully.”

Alfredo sighs in his relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The king nods. “You should go; you look exhausted. And if Matt knows you’re back, he’ll be looking for you.”

Alfredo bows low. “Your Grace,” he says, and turns and flees the office.

A few moments later, the office’s curtains shift and Larry steps out. “He’s lying to you, Your Grace,” he says.

Henry stares at the door that his ward had disappeared through. “I know. A blind man could see that.”

“Shall I have a warrant put out for his arrest, Your Grace?”

Henry shakes his head once. “It will only add credit to the fantastical claims coming out of Mareon. Whether I like his delivery or not, Alfredo has done the job I raised him to do. One of them, anyway. He’s let us know exactly who we will be facing. And anyway, I didn’t raise a traitor, Larry. I raised a good man, and a loyal one, though it seems that I couldn’t quite cut that family loyalty from him. He’s lying to us now, but I think he thinks his heart is in the right place. We just need to turn his head again.”

“By promising him his brother?” Larry asks. At the king’s nod, Larry enquires, “You won’t truly consider giving a Collins a footing in Acheon again, will you?”

“No,” the king confirms. “No, the Collins boy must die, but it must be done carefully, in a way that doesn’t lose us the other one. Have Alfredo watched closely, Larry, and see if he doesn’t try to send that proposition to his brother.”

Larry bows. “At once, Your Grace.”

Almost as soon as Alfredo steps outside of the office, he finds himself buried in somebody’s arms. They seem to come from nowhere and their sudden hug knocks the air out of him. “Alfredo!” 

“Ah! Hey, Matt,” Alfredo grunts.

Matt pulls back and shakes his shoulders. “You! Do you know what they’ve been saying about you? I thought you’d turned on us! Where have you been?!” Matt demands, then pulls Alfredo into another hug. “Alfredo, I thought I’d never see you again.”

There’s relief in Matt’s voice as he speaks as if he had been utterly terrified. Of course he had been – if Alfredo found out that Matt had turned against himself and the king, he’d be heartbroken too. The two were raised together; they could almost be brothers themselves.

“I’m sorry, Matt. Henry sent me away on an errand. I would have told you, but it was… sensitive.”

“Sensitive,” Matt repeats. He goes stiff in Alfredo’s arms and pulls away. “So it’s true? Everything they’re saying about the…” Matt gulps and averts his eyes, “The old king? And… the kid?”

Alfredo glances around. There are far too many servants around – none of them seem to be paying attention, but why would they make it obvious if they were? Any one of them could be a spy for Henry, or Chad James, or Free, or anybody else with money. So Alfredo takes Matt by the arm and drags him into the closest room – one of Larry’s rooms for storing records. As usual, it is empty. Alfredo bars the door behind them and asks quietly: “What are they saying?”

“They say that Free’s claims are real – the old king is waiting in Mareon and he’s going to come for his throne,” Matt worries, “And that Collins kid who went missing, he’s coming for me! Jeremy believes it. I think Henry does too. Alfredo, if that’s true, they’ll kill me!”

“They won’t kill you, Matt.”

“So it is true?!”

Alfredo pauses, and it is a pause that lasts far too long. Matt sits on the desk for support as his hand comes to his forehead. “Oh, fuck… Oh no…”

“Matt, it’s not true,” Alfredo protests.

“Don’t lie. I know it’s true – I’ve known it since Jeremy believed it. They’re going to kill me. They’re gonna kill me…” His head falls into his quivering hands.

“Nobody is going to kill you,” Alfredo swears, “They’re no threat to you or the king. They don’t have the forces, even with Free. There’s going to be one battle in Austur, and you’ll win easily, and after that, their hopes will be dashed. The old king won’t live long enough to recuperate and try again, and Tr… _Collins_ won’t be able to touch Sureon as long as Henry is on the throne.”

“And you don’t think half of my vassals and men won’t flock to the Collins standard the moment they see it? Half of them resent me already; they blame the king and my father; they call them child murderers. Do you think they won’t look across that field, see the miracle they could only dream of and run me through on their way to join him? Whether or not Henry lets Collins take the duchy, I don’t stand a chance at surviving!”

“Then stay close to the king. Let one of the king’s generals command Sureon’s forces.”

Matt scoffs. “Then they’ll call me a coward and even more will defect. Then what kind of a leader am I? None that anybody will listen to.”

“You have the king behind you and a birthright to the duchy, and once the battle is won, they’ll have no alternative. They’ll listen.”

“Ugh…” Matt rises. “I need to talk to Henry…”

Alfredo grabs his arm quickly. “Matt, do not tell him about Ramsey and T… _Collins_. Tell him they’re pretenders.”

“You want me to lie to the _king?!_ ”

“Regardless of whether they are or not, Henry will tell the kingdom that they’re pretenders. It’s better for everyone if he believes it when he says it.”

Matt’s expression is uneasy at best, but he nods. “Just pretenders,” he mutters to himself, as if he could persuade himself too, then he hugs the bastard again. “Thank you for coming home,” he whispers.

“Don’t thank me,” Alfredo says, “You’re the closest thing to family that I have. I’d never turn against you.”


	17. Progress

The next day, Jeremy arrives with a grand force over two thousand strong with most of his northern vassals by his side. Norte is the largest of the great counties, and despite having a similar population to Sureon, Norte is known for training warriors out of its people – there are more capable soldiers in the north than in Veshire and Sureon combined, which is why Jeremy was comfortable to leave hundreds of men, most of his best, with Kat at Jorven to defend their home.

A day after that, Henry is ready to march east. The court will come with him, he decides, both to ensure that Henry remains the sole ruler of the kingdom in his absence from the capital, and to give his population some reassurance. To the people of the capital and the villages they will pass, it will look as if the king and his court are going on progress, not to war. Of course, what they won’t see is that the non-combatants, the children, women and elderly, will be securely placed behind the walls of the last fortress until his army can secure the path to the next. Henry will be damned if Geoffrey attempts to sail around the kingdom, land in the west in Jones’ absence and march east to flank his army or take his capital and any possible hostages left undefended there.

He knows it will be a slow progress to the border of Austur, but Henry will arrive with a confident and well-rested army ready to face the much smaller forces of Austur and whatever support Ramsey and James have shored up on the continent. Alfredo’s early bargaining for diplomacy and a chance to spare Trevor Collin’s life reassures the king that their support is likely to be minimal if Alfredo has such little faith in his brother’s chances of success.

An hour or so after dawn, he leaves his castle with Larry by his side and finds his court prepared to set off. Wagons of weapons, food and other supplies roll out of the courtyard with a guard of men to defend against any would-be thieves as it passes through the city to the eastern gate. Those who remain are the gentry, the wealthy commoners who follow the court, and the essential servants.

When his court sees him, they bow or kneel and only rise once the king has mounted his great warhorse, a giant of a beast with grey fur and a dark mane. Henry casts his eyes over his nobles and his subjects and raises his voice to them. “I never wanted this,” he tells them, “I wanted to be a king of peace, a king who saw his kingdom and his people prosper beneath his rule. But I am betrayed. Gavin Free, a man who swore he loved me and would serve us until his dying breath has turned his back on Acheon and its people, and now he threatens us with war and the promise of unknown invaders from across the sea.

“I did not wish to ask this of any of you, to ride out with me, many without your families, to a battlefield to risk your lives in my name. But my hand was forced, and I can only thank each and every man who stands here today and who will fight alongside me for their sacrifice. Any man who dies should know that they die for the promise of peace and prosperity for Acheon, and I will owe them a debt that I can never repay, but I will honour them with my thoughts every day until my last, and I swear that I will keep their widows and their families safe and cared for, and none of them will know the pain of warfare again as long as I can keep my crown. Those who live will return to their homes and live out their days in peace as heroes with the king and Acheon’s eternal gratitude.”

He rides out into the cleared roads of Wynrun, with his court falling into place behind him. To his side, riding just behind the king, fall in Jeremy and Matt. To Jeremy’s side, again slightly behind, Alfredo joins.

Normally a bastard, and the bastard of an extinct house no less, would not take such high precedence in the king’s train, but his status as the king’s ward as well as his favour means that, at the very least, none of the other nobles can openly complain. The only one who could be forgiven for raising his voice would be Michael Jones, who has as much right to be beside the king as the other dukes, but he is more than content to ride behind the king and his ward if it means he can spend the journey with his wife.

“Do you know where the battle is likely to take place yet?” Jeremy asks the king.

The king, with a grim face, shakes his head. “That depends on Free, and whether he is willing to crawl out of his castle to spare Whiteport’s citizens a siege.”

“He’s a coward, Your Grace,” Jeremy spits.

But Henry doesn’t rise to him. “We’ve never seen him in battle. He may be a coward in the face of war, or he may take to it well. He may be a terrible soldier but turn out to be a capable and respectable commander. There is so much you can’t know about a man until you have seen him in these settings.”

“And the invaders?” Matt asks.

Henry’s face falls into a scowl. “What about them?”

“Is there anything you know about them? Anything we can prepare for?”

“Prepare to kill them, Matthew, because all I know is that they won’t hesitate to kill us.”

Matt averts his eyes, shudders, then nods. The king notes his nerves and puts on a somewhat forced but still believable smile. “If that isn’t something you can manage, try to keep your spirits up. After all, aren’t we keeping up the appearance of a merry court? It’s the best we can do for our men and the people right now to reassure them. A lord that looks troubled will only lead to fear among the ranks too.”

Jeremy laughs. “It’s his first time at war, Your Grace, and his men know it. I think they would be more alarmed by a smile than nerves. At least he’s showing them he has the sense to understand the danger he’s leading them into.”

“Henry, you know what they’re saying, what Free is saying,” Matt says with a low voice to avoid the prying ears of the common folk they pass. “You’re not worried about defections?”

“Free can promise a Collins boy all he wants, but it’s all just that, _promises_. We can offer Collins loyalists one better – we can show them our own Collins boy. As long as Alfredo here stands by your side, we can boast that his house stands with us.”

Matt glances across to Alfredo. It doesn’t seem to be listening, but perhaps that is intentional. Alfredo’s gaze is fixed directly ahead as if attempting to divert his attention from something else. “Just a bastard,” Matt whispers to Henry.

“With as much Collins blood in his veins as the other one, don’t forget. At least we can prove he lives. Alfredo is a far safer bet for Collins loyalists than the ramblings and promises of another county’s duke, and a declared traitor at that.”

“And if Free produces a Collins pretender?”

The king shrugs. “Kill him. Surround yourself with men you trust and have your commanders kill any man who tries to swap their coat.”

It’s hardly reassuring to Matt, a man who has seen little death, and certainly none on a battlefield, but who is he to argue with the king? Henry knows what he is doing – while he has been a king of peace for fifteen years, he masterminded the slaughter of the Collins house and has maintained his skills in combat and strategy in case of a day like this when he would have to ride out to defend his crown and his kingdom. So Matt clamps his jaw shut and does his duty – ride by the king’s side and pass as a confident lord certain to keep war from the doors of the common folk of Wynrun.

That evening, shortly before dusk, the court arrives at the first stop on their progress. It is a relatively new castle, built only fifty or so years ago, named Pembridge Castle after the bridge it was constructed to defend. It is the property of one of the king’s own minor vassals, with it being positioned within the crownlands rather than any major duchy.

Camps are set up around the outer wall of the castle while the king and his court are taken inside to the great hall for a meal. For the trouble of hosting such a large party of guests, Henry offers the lord of the castle twice Alfredo’s annual income, no trivial amount. In his gratitude, the lord has the best wine and ale from his cellars brought for the court’s enjoyment, and dozens of barrels are taken outside for the soldiers.

The meal isn’t as grand as the ones that the court would enjoy at Wynrun, but nobody complains. A standard meal in a usual campaign would consist of little more than boiled vegetables and, if they are lucky, some meat. But on this occasion, the king is insistent on leading a well-fed, well-rested and loyal army into battle, and many men have recently marched across the kingdom already to meet with the king’s forces in the capital.

Towards the end of the meal, the king stands and raises his glass. He has a great smile on his face – it’s the first time Jeremy has seen him in a truly positive mood since he first announced Free’s betrayal. Or is he? The king’s hand, Jeremy notices, trembles slightly. No, the king is still agitated and afraid of what is coming. He is hiding it, for his sake or their own.

“I don’t think I run a dull court!” the king jibes them. “Come on, let’s dance! Musicians, if you will? An upbeat one!”

Matt chuckles nervously. “He’s gone mad.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think the court needed it,” Jeremy says.

“I need it,” Alfredo says. He rises, taking a final mouthful of wine despite his already flushed cheeks, then pats Matt’s shoulder. “Coming? That girl over there’s been checking you out all night.”

“No she hasn’t,” Matt scoffs.

“Maybe. But she’d hardly turn a duke down,” Alfredo says, raising his eyebrow suggestively. “Come on, the king demands it.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine, I’m coming. I take it you’re staying here, Jeremy?”

Jeremy nods. “I dance with no one but Kat, and she is safely elsewhere.”

“Forget that killjoy – come on,” Alfredo says. He effectively drags Matt away to ask some poor ladies for a dance.

Jeremy shakes his head and looks back to the king. He had approached the Joneses, sat opposite Jeremy, and is now offering his hand to Duchess Jones for a dance. Lindsay blushes and looks to her husband. Michael smiles at the king, makes some jest that gets a great bellow of a laugh out of Henry, and then nods to his wife. Lindsay stands, makes her way around the table, curtseys to the king and takes his offered hand.

The king leads her to the centre of the court and the other couples fall in around them. The musicians strike up their song, and the dance begins.

It’s a well-known dance – everybody at court knows the steps with ease. Henry smiles at Lindsay as she twirls around him, their hands just barely keeping contact. “Tell me,” he says to her, “Are you putting on this show for me, or for your husband?”

She giggles. “I can do both, can’t I?”

“He looks at you as if he is mesmerised by you.”

“I should hope he is, Your Grace.”

He smiles. “Then call me cupid. I can’t believe you have managed to bring a Jones to heel. The latest in a line of warriors devoted entirely to you.”

“He is devoted to you first, Your Grace, and then to Veshire, and then to me. So perhaps it is not me he is mesmerised by.” Lindsay giggles again as the dance pulls them close. “He wouldn’t be alone. Half the ladies at court are besotted by you.”

“By my crown you mean, Duchess Jones,” Henry says. “Hardly a queenly attribute. Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if Diaz has made his way through half of them by now. No, if I take another queen, it will have to be from the continent – and it certainly won’t be possible until this business with Austur and Mareon is over.”

“And just like that, you’ve broken the heart of every maiden at court, Your Grace.”

“Hm. And your husband, how many men has he brought again?”

Lindsay’s eyes flicker away as she thinks. “Oh, a thousand or so, I think. Veshire’s strongest, I can assure you.”

“Good. I will reward you both for your loyalty after the war. I know you are a true friend, Lindsay.”

She giggles again and curtseys.

Jeremy watches the dance over the rim of his drink. His foot taps along, and occasionally he drums his fingers too.

He watches Matt and his partner first. Matt is not an experienced dancer, or flirt, or really any quality he could apply here. He smiles at his young partner, and he tries to hold a conversation with her, but even Jeremy can see that her smile and her enjoyment are forced. Besides, everyone knows Matt won’t find his duchess on the dancefloor. Matt won’t find his duchess at all – the king will.

Jeremy flickers over the dancers. He watches the light stream across the silk of dresses and the gracefulness of the men and women who weave around each other and other couples. Well, the gracefulness of _most_ of them, as Matt steps on his partner’s toe and promptly apologises.

When Jeremy finds Alfredo within the crowd, his eyes grow wide. Alfredo is dancing with the daughter of one of Norte’s earls. What was her name? Barbara, Jeremy remembers. She is new to court – her father must be searching for a suitable match for her. Hopefully, for Alfredo’s sake, he is not watching his daughter now.

The two of them dance as if they are playing a game, although Jeremy isn’t sure who is being played here. When the song draws them together, the two step a little too close. When their heads are close, their noses brush against each other as if to kiss, only for them to pull away again with a soft smile on their lips. When the men pull their partners close with an arm around their waists, Alfredo holds Barbara against him a little too tight, and when the women twirl away again, Barbara looks just a little too happy. She looks up at him through her eyelashes like a doe, and he returns the look with a fierce desire.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jeremy groans, his head dropping into his hands. “That’s going to be my problem, I just… I just know it.”

When the music ends, most of the couples applaud the band or each other or the other dancers. The king twirls Lindsay around one last time before releasing her back to her husband. But Alfredo and Barbara hover in each other’s gazes for a little while longer. They’re both panting in exhaustion, and Barbara’s hand is on Alfredo’s rising and falling chest while his hand is on her waist. She says something to him that is drowned out by the rest of the crowd, but by Alfredo’s grin, he clearly heard it. He leans in and whispers in her ear. Barbara throws her head back, laughs, and pats his chest lightly, then pulls away from him and sweeps back to her seat.

Alfredo is the one being played.

He stares after her until Jeremy grabs his arm. The duke pulls him down to whisper in his ear, “Can’t you keep it in your pants for five minutes?!” and then drags the bastard back to their table.

As he does, the doors to the hall burst open. No less than a dozen guards enter, and two of them are holding a woman between them by the arms. A gasp rises across the court – most of them recognise her.

“Your Grace,” one of the men, their commander, begins.

Henry interrupts them before another word can be said. “Release her. RELEASE HER!” he roars.

The men instantly drop the woman’s arms and back away, bowing to the king. The woman wastes no time in running into the king’s arms. “Thank you, Henry,” she whispers to him.

The woman steps away and kneels before the king. Jeremy finally gets a good view of her. She is the Duchess of Austur, Megan, and supposedly their sworn enemy. Her hair is ragged and her dress covered in mud – she has ridden hard and fast recently, before her capture.

“I came as soon as I heard you were marching out to meet Gavin in battle, Your Grace,” Meg says to the king, but loud enough for the entire court to hear. “My husband is an idiot and a traitor, and I won’t stand by his side while he raises an army against his lord and king. I brought five likeminded Austur lords and their men, if you’ll have us, Your Grace.”

Henry beacons for her to rise, then shouts to the servants, “Have a room and a bath prepared for the duchess, and her men released. Meg, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

The king leads her out of the hall to speak with her privately, but the court is shocked. Jeremy in particular – everybody remembers hearing Gavin Free announce his intention to marry her. She was far below him and brought nothing that Free could legally inherit – it was a match of love, pure and simple, similar to Jeremy’s own marriage. But it seems even love does not bend loyalty, and Jeremy knows that somewhere out there Gavin Free will be harbouring a broken heart tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strangely awkward and difficult chapter to write but it's done.
> 
> Anyway, just in case anybody wants to contact me for any reason outside of comments I set up a tumblr (https://shyafwriter.tumblr.com/). I probably won't use it for much, it's just there in case anybody wants/needs to DM me for any reason.


	18. So It Must Begin

The skies over Mareon had been grey all day. Far from the usual glowing city of its reputation, Mareon had never looked so glum and dark.

Nevertheless, Trevor and Chad had spent the whole day from dawn at the docks helping men load the ships. Sitting in the palace had been driving Trevor insane, and if an extra pair of hands speeds up their departure by even a couple of minutes, Trevor thought it would be worth it.

The rain began shortly before dusk, about an hour before sundown. It was heavy rain that hammered down on the city, driving most of its inhabitants indoors. Chad retreated back to the palace, and most of the other workers fled to shelter too, but not Trevor. He drew his hood up and continued, even as the rain soaked through his cloak and hair and clothes, even as the cold seemed to bite into his skin and stiffen his fingers, made worse by the harsh, icy wind that blew into the harbour. But even that wasn’t enough to stop him, he simply shook his head to clear his eyes and carried on by the light of lanterns.

Soon enough, the sea began to thrash at the harbour. The ships groaned as they were thrown about, and occasionally water crashed onto the docks or the top decks of the ships themselves.

Trevor is on the pier when he sees the first flash of blinding light, made even worse by the reflection from the water. It followed a few seconds later by the first rumble. It is not the first time he has heard thunder nor witnessed lightning – it was common in the summers of his childhood growing up by the sea, but this thunder is different; it is deafening.

He shelters his eyes as best he can with his arm and looks to the skies. He can’t see the clouds in the darkness, but he does see the occasional flash of hot white light within the clouds. Thunder rolls again.

The water crashes against the pier and drenches Trevor again. He shivers and pulls his cloak tight around him, as if that will help. Lightning flashes again, illuminating the rocking carrack beside him. Though it is tightly tethered, it looks as if it could tip at any minute.

“My lord!” he hears somebody cry over the pouring of the rain and the splash of hooves on soaked land. Jack and his horse are illuminated by a lantern that Jack clasps. He pulls his mount to a stop at the edge of the pier and slides off the saddle. Trevor hurries to help him.

“You shouldn’t be here in this,” Trevor says.

“Neither should you, my lord,” Jack says, “You could be swept away, and if you’re not, you’ll fall sick.” He clasps Trevor’s hands. He thought his own were cold, but Trevor’s are frozen. “Good grief, Trevor, your fingers are like ice.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, young men always say that, that’s why so few of you see your fourth decade.”

“We need these ships ready, Jack! We’re already behind schedule – half the workers left early! Chad said we should be sailing tomorrow!”

Jack turns Trevor to face the sea. “Look at it out there! No ship can sail those waters, let alone a fleet! And don’t you feel the wind? It’s blowing us back into port. We’re not going anywhere until this storm subsides and the wind changes again. That could take days, or maybe even weeks!”

“We don’t have weeks! Free needs us _now!_ The battle could be any day!”

“You’re right Trevor, but if we sail in this, we either won’t make it out of the harbour or we’ll drown. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out. Come back to the palace and dry off before you catch your death.”

Trevor casts his eyes over the sea. He grits his teeth and scowls at the skies, but there is nothing to vent his frustration at, and so his posture softens and his shoulders slump forward and his eyes drop to his feet.

Jack tuts at listening to Trevor’s chattering teeth. He unclasps his cloak, throws it around the young duke’s shoulders and says, “Come on, there’s nothing for us to do here.”

Whiteport is a well-connected and densely-populated city, yet even Gavin Free must admit that it was not built to withstand a siege of the scale that the king is capable of. For certain, food would never run out, nor fresh water thanks to the great river that finally meets the sea at Whiteport, but the city walls are long, old and, in many places, almost in a state of disrepair. Whiteport’s greatest strength was also its greatest weakness – it was always considered too profitable and strategically important for a ruling king to sack, least of all by land rather than sea, and so why should expensive defences be built and maintained against such an assault on the city?

And so, dutifully, Gavin commands his army to mobilise and prepare for battle. If he must face the entirely of Acheon alone, he at least will do so on his own terms.

He draws his army up on a bank over the road by which his scouts assured him the king’s forces were taking towards his capital. At best, his position would allow for an ambush. At worst, the high ground should confer some advantage at least early in the battle and allow his men a greater deal of rest and preparation than the king’s forces.

The ambush plan does not work – the king’s scouts forewarn him, and shortly after the king’s great force comes into view, Gavin receives a letter from the king’s messenger detailing the terms of his surrender.

The king calls his offer merciful in his letter, and in some ways it is. Gavin will keep his duchy out of Henry’s respect for his birthright. He will hold on to most of his lands also, save a chunk of his south-western border, which will be annexed by Henry and bestowed to Matt Bragg for his loyalty. But the letter makes clear that Gavin will remain duke in name only. All of Austur’s political business will go through Meg – laws and justice will not be passed without her name on the paper. In addition, Meg’s income will be doubled, and Austur will pay 30% more tax for the next decade, bringing the total income of the duchy to around roughly the same as the other three great duchies. And worst of all – any and all heirs that Gavin may have in the future will be surrendered as wards to the king and raised in his household. Just as the king has done to the Collins house before in Diaz’ upbringing, Gavin’s heirs will be Free by blood but Mortimer by loyalty and nature.

That is what makes the king’s offer wholly unacceptable. Handing over power to Meg is hardly any punishment, and the lands Henry threatens to give to Matt are mostly mountains – they are hardly profitable to Austur and a part of the Protega mountain range that otherwise runs through Sureon alone – a few more mountains are no great gain for Matt. And tax doesn’t worry Gavin – he is never wanting for money. Half of his forces are made up of mercenaries from Norte and the continent, and they hardly dented his fortune. But Gavin would rather see an imposter house sit on the throne of Austur than traitors be made of Frees.

Gavin tears the letter up before the messenger and hands it back. “Tell the pretender king to have the duchess taken somewhere safe if he hasn’t already. That is the only agreement I’ll make with him today.”

The messenger bows and stutters over his next words, “M’ lo…rd?” He is unsure exactly how much respect should be given to a duke in open rebellion. Gavin dismisses it entirely – he has much greater concerns than how he is addressed, particularly by the king’s man.

“No Ramsey standard,” Jeremy observes with a grim face.

“No Collins standard either,” Matt adds, “It’s just Free and his vassals.”

Jeremy gives in to his curiosity and glances over to Alfredo. The Collins bastard is doing a fine job at hiding any emotion one way or another. At Matt’s side, anybody who didn’t know any better would see a symbol of southern unity in the two of them, and maybe there is a genuine unity; both of them are certainly striving to appear so outwardly.

When Jeremy turns his face back to the enemy forces, Alfredo allows himself one short and silent sigh of relief. No Collins standard. His brother will not die today.

The messenger Henry had sent comes riding back into their camp. He throws himself from his horse’s back before the animal has even halted, then drops to his knee before the king. The great dukes and other nobles gather around to hear what he has to say. “He rejected, Your Grace,” the messenger pants, “He only asked that you ensured the Duchess Free be taken somewhere safe.”

The king nods as Duchess Free rolls her eyes. “So be it,” Henry says. “Megan will hold back with the other ladies of the court.”

“Like hell,” Meg scoffs, “I’ll watch from here.”

The king shakes his head firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh?” Meg asks, “And who exactly is going to try to harm or capture me? You? Or my moron husband? I will be fine.”

Michael steps forward and kneels. “Your Grace, if you like, I’ll have some of my men form a guard for her.”

Henry nods his thanks, then he addresses his nobles. “Prepare your troops. Norte’s to our left, Sureon’s to our right, and Veshire’s as our rearguard. I will lead the vanguard.”

“But Henry, we’ll be fighting up-hill!” Matt protests.

“We have the numbers, and soon enough the battle will swing and Free will lose his advantage. Go, Bragg.”

Matt nods. “Your Grace,” he says, then reluctantly leaves the king’s side.

Henry watches him go, shakes his head, and turns his attention to his ward. “On him, Diaz. Keep him safe.”

“I will, Your Grace,” Alfredo says.

“I mean it, Alfredo. Don’t let Matt out of your sight. I want both of you by my side for years to come.”

Alfredo bows. “Would I let my brother die? I’ll bring him to you safely once the battle is won, Henry. You have my word.”

“Good,” the king says. “Be safe, Alfredo.”

His ward vanishes into the troops to find Matt. As he goes, Michael steps up to the king and asks, “Do you really trust him, Your Grace?”

“I trust that he loves Matt,” Henry says, “If nothing else, I trust that.”


	19. Civil War

With the armies drawn up, and negotiation denied, the king faces the stark reality that this battle must go ahead, and since the opposition holds the advantageous position, he will need to make the first charge.

Michael hangs back with his own forces, positioned behind the king’s own. Beside him is the most powerful earl in Veshire and his closest ally, Eric Baudour, a young and capable man with enough ambition to rival Mortimer himself. “The king will charge first, unless Free is even more of a moron than we ever fathomed,” Michael says to him, “He doesn’t expect us to follow. Not immediately. We guard the rear until there is an absolute certainty that no hidden force attempts an ambush.”

“And then, my lord?”

“And then he expects us to engage wherever we’re needed. He says he trusts my judgement.”

“As we all do,” Eric agrees. He casts his eyes over the battlefield. “The southerners are the weak link,” he comments.

“Bragg is well defended. He’s surrounded by able generals, and the king sent the Collins bastard for good measure. Free won’t prioritise attacking the southerners, not if there’s any sense in him. Breaking through would swing the battlefield around – he’ll lose his advantage. For the same reason, he won’t pay the northerners much mind, either.”

A battle cry rises within the crownland’s forces. The king is mounted on his warhorse with his sword drawn and raised to the sky. His cavalry – the greatest and most glory-hungry knights – make the first charge upwards with their lances bared before them. The king and his personal guards follow immediately behind, and then the ever-bloodthirsty infantry.

Free’s archers open fire, and to be safe Michael orders his men to brace with their shields just in case a stray arrow comes their way. The archers take down a few of the charging horses or their riders, but in the chaos of a battlefield, those are the only casualties that Michael can be certain of.

The armies clash. Despite the cavalry charge and immediate losses, the front line of the Austur forces hold firm and repel the king. No immediate weak point emerges for Henry or his commanders to exploit, leaving them no choice but to attempt to struggle their way through to Free.

“I’ll move the men up and prepare for the charge,” Michael tells Eric, “You make a quick perimeter check and make sure Free really wasn’t stupid enough to try to surprise the king from behind.”

Meg can’t see Gavin in the midst of the fighting as she hoped she would be able to. She lost the king’s figure too. From her vantage point, she can’t be sure if either side is making any headway against the other, nor if Gavin or Henry are dead. All she can see are bodies, both living and dead, and all she can hear is the roar of men baying for blood or struggling for their lives.

She twists her rings around her fingers and paces before the two Jones knights positioned to guard her. Impatiently she snaps, “Does your lord think he is spectating some event? Why doesn’t he fight?”

“He is protecting the king from behind, my lady,” one of the men says with a bored tone. Neither of them are particularly happy to be missing out on the action.

“Protecting him from what? A safe retreat?” she says scornfully.

“My lady, the duke will intervene when the king wishes him to do so.”

Meg rolls her eyes. One of the Jones knights steps towards her, bows and says, “Forgive me, my lady, but you seem determined on your husband’s failure. Aren’t you worried for his life?”

“Gavin’s life?” Meg scoffs, though it is all a mask. Of course she is terrified for him, but showing it would do herself no favours if anything does happen to him. Affection and sympathies for traitors are best kept behind closed doors. The lie is made easier by the high chances of Gavin’s survival – if he doesn’t escape, it is more likely that he will be captured than slain. “Gavin will be off the field and on the fastest ship to Mareon at the first sign of trouble. I worry for the king.”

“I see,” the knight mumbles.

Meg watches as a rider approaches Jones at the head of his army – Baudour, who had left the duke’s side a short while ago. The two have a brief discussion, and then Michael Jones raises his sword and the battle cry of his army rises.

As the western forces begin their charge, Meg hears the unsheathing of a blade. What is happening clicks near immediately, and she ducks under the arm that grabs for her. When the other knight grabs her wrist, she spins and draws the dagger at his hip free and jams it at the weak point under his arm, just as Gavin had once shown her to do. At his scream, he releases Meg’s hand.

With the momentum and adrenaline behind her, she scoops up her dress and makes a bolt for the horses stationed close by. Originally, Jones had told her they were to make a hasty escape should it appear that she is under threat from her husband’s army. Now, as she should have known, she realises that Jones was the threat all along.

She pulls herself up onto the mare’s back and kicks before she can even position her feet into the stirrups, clinging to the reins for her life. Meg isn’t entirely sure where to run, but of one thing she is confident – she can outride any man who attempts to chase her down.

She throws a glance over her shoulder as she rides. One of the knights, the one she stabbed, is still on the ground though far from dead. The other is mounting another horse, but Meg is fortunate that he is slow.

Down on the battlefield, she watches as the western forces charge into and decimate the Jorven army.

Matt feels the thud of charging horses more than he hears it. Though he doesn’t see where it strikes, he hears the screams that rise and the shouts that follow: “Treason! Treason!” It seems that the whole army makes a scramble towards the left side, and in the chaos, Matt is knocked into the mud.

“Alfredo!” he begins to scream as desperate men trample him. “Henry! Alfredo!”

Alfredo shoves his way through the crowd, grabs Matt by both arms and drags him to his feet. “Go!” he shouts, shoving Matt. “Go!”

“Where’s the king? Where’s Henry?!” Matt says. He searches as much as he dares – maybe through the horror he can catch a glimpse of the king still battling on for his crown.

He doesn’t get any response to his desperate pleas. Alfredo drags Matt through the field until he can find relative safety for Matt, sheltering the duke’s body with his own. “Tell your men to fall back,” he instructs.

“You want us to retreat? Abandon Henry in the middle of all this?!”

“Not retreat,” Alfredo assures him, “It’s a tactic. It will draw Free’s army out, and yours away from whatever is happening over there. When you’re in a better position, order them to turn and face whoever followed. You understand?”

Matt nods quickly.

“Good. Once you’ve done that, hold back somewhere safe. I’ll come find you.”

“Come find me?!” Matt trembles at the thought. “You’re not coming with me?”

“No.”

“But… No. No, you have to! I… No, fuck that! Stay with me, I command it!”

“Nice try,” Alfredo says, “Small problem. I’m not southern; you can’t command me. Just do what I told you to, don’t be reckless, and you’ll be fine. I’ll come back.”

Michael finds Henry just where he wants him – in the middle of the field, alone but for a few loyal but poorly-trained foot soldiers. Just as he hoped, Henry’s knights and lords abandoned the king to aid the northern forces. For the first time since he took the crown, the king is vulnerable.

Clutching his sword, Michael makes his move. He charges the king, raises his blade and brings it down towards Henry’s head.

The king catches Michael’s movement in the corner of his eye, dips away and uses his own blade to redirect Michael’s away. Only now is he able to recognise his assailant, but he has no time to process his hurt or betrayal – Michael swings down again and again and again in a vicious, uncontrolled fury. Henry dodges and parries as best he can, but Michael’s energy is relentless, and the older Henry already exhausted by battle. There is only so long that he can hold out for.

His saviour knocks Michael away with a tackle. The duke’s sword escapes his grip, and before Michael can find it, there is a new blade beneath his jaw.

The sword’s owner is the last person that Michael wanted to see, and he can’t help but groan. “Diaz. The Collins pet. Of course, who else?”

“You’re Geoffrey’s man?” Alfredo asks. Like Henry, Alfredo is hurt by the betrayal. Unlike Henry, Alfredo is in no way shocked by Michael’s actions.

“Obviously. Your brother sends his love.”

“If Trevor wanted to send me a message, he’d do it directly. Get up.”

Michael spits out blood and glares as he rises. He stoops for his sword, and Alfredo allows it. Around them, the battle almost falls to a standstill. “Get out of the way, Diaz.”

Alfredo plants his feet between Michael and the horrified king. 

“We can get rid of him now, Diaz,” Michael says. “If we do that, the war ends here. Ramsey will sail into the capital safely and take his place on the throne with no more bloodshed, and you’ll get your brother back. You can go home again with him. You want that, don’t you? All that stands between us and peace is the man stood behind you.”

“He’s lying to you, Alfredo,” Henry shouts, directed more at Michael than his ward. “Do not engage with him. He’s not worth your life.”

Michael laughs in Henry’s face. “I won’t fight him! I’m on orders from the king himself: no harm can come to the bastard of Sureon. King Geoffrey described him as an asset. Maybe there are more traitors amongst your ranks than you thought, _Your Majesty._ ”

“Why would Geoffrey care about me? He doesn’t trust me,” Alfredo protests.

“Oh, no, he trusts you,” Michael assures him, “Now get out of my way and let me end this! That man killed my father!”

“He killed mine too! But until Geoffrey showed up, we’ve had nothing but peace for years, so maybe it was for the greater good!”

“Greater g…?!” Michael splutters, “Are you so brainwashed to call your own father’s murder and your little brother’s exile for the greater good?! What about when he decides you pose too much of a threat to Bragg and has you executed or worse? Will you call that the greater good?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Then you’re delusional if you think that that monster won’t throw you away the moment you outlive your usefulness. If your father could see what you’ve become, he’d be disgusted,” Michael spits.

Alfredo knows he’s probably right; his father would loathe to see a Collins bow to a Mortimer. Lucky for him, he isn’t a Collins, and he doesn’t waste his life chasing the approval of a dead man. “I’m not moving,” he says, “Henry is more a father to me than he ever was. If you want the king, go through me.”

Michael glares as if he could burn through them both with just his thoughts. While the duke and the bastard stand unyielding, the cry goes up amongst the Austur forces. Gavin Free is retreating, and soon enough the king’s knights will be on him and there won’t be any escape. Michael roars in his frustration and snarls, “I’ll see you dead yet for what you did, Mortimer! Veshire, fall back! Fall back!”

The traitorous duke turns his back on the king and his ward and vanishes into his retreating army. The king gives the signal for his own men to give chase, but he is exhausted and makes no move to follow them. Alfredo stays dutifully by his side.

“Where’s Matt?” the king asks, “Is he safe?”

“He was fine when I left him. He’ll be fine; he’s not stupid.”

The king shakes his head. “You disobeyed me. You gave me your word.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Alfredo says, “I swore to defend your life before I swore to obey you.”

The king, with a raised eyebrow and soft smile, says, “Don’t make a habit of this, Diaz.”

“Saving your life? I’m hoping I won’t have to.”

“Find Matt,” Henry orders, “I want his forces routing Free.”

“And you?”

“I need to find Dooley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have taken a slight hiatus, but I'm back and I'm feeling refreshed. And just in time for RTX too :)


	20. Spoil of War

“How many lost?” Henry demands as he marches through the battlefield, now deserted but for the remnants of his own forces, the northern and southern forces. The battlefield is ridden with the bodies of the fallen, but the king recognises none of them.

Larry struggles to keep up with the tall, striding king. “It’s too soon to say,” he bumbles, “But perhaps thousands of our own men, mostly Norte’s.”

Henry hesitates, his heart aching. Michael Jones’ betrayal isn’t entirely surprising, and perhaps he should have expected it, but Lindsay… Lindsay’s betrayal hurts.

“Your Grace!” he hears, along with the thud of a horse’s gallop. The king raises his head to see Matt ride to him, alive and seemingly unharmed. Alfredo rides another horse right beside him. Both alive, both unhurt.

When Matt halts his horse and swings out of the saddle, Henry approaches and pulls Matt into his arms tight, and even cups the back of Matt’s head. “You’re alright,” the king sighs, “Thank the gods, you’re alright, Matt.”

Matt is frozen for a moment. This is the biggest outpour of emotion Henry has had towards him since he took the crown so long ago, and for a moment, it feels as if the big brother figure that Henry had once been has returned. A shaken Matt gladly melts into Henry’s embrace.

“You say that like you thought I’d die,” Matt comments.

“I didn’t doubt you’d manage to pull through for a second.” The king pulls back for a brief moment and reaches out past Matt’s shoulder. “Alfredo, come here.”

His hesitant ward steps closer and tries to bow. Henry grabs Alfredo’s shoulder and pulls him in until he can wrap his entire arm around a shocked Alfredo. The king pulls Matt back in too and rests his head on their shoulders and closes his eyes and silently thanks every god, deity and spirit he can think of for their survival.

“This is… nice…” Alfredo murmurs.

“Henry, where’s Jeremy?” Matt asks.

The king releases them both and wipes at his eyes briefly. “Unaccounted for. They’re searching the dead as we speak.”

“Your Grace,” Larry interjects, “Forgive me, this information isn’t confirmed, but there are men who claim to have witnessed Dooley’s capture, but there are conflicting reports as to whose men took the duke, and what they did with him.”

“If he’s captured, he’s probably fine, right Henry? They’ll ransom him, right?” Matt worries.

Henry can give no satisfying answer, so he gives none at all. Instead, he addresses Larry, “Use the tents for hospitals for the wounded and make sure the dead are given proper burials. And I want our scouts after Jones!”

“At once, Your Grace,” Larry says, bowing. He scurries away, shoving past Alfredo’s shoulder as he goes. The bastard scowls at him, but his eyes spot something in the distance far more worthy of his attention than a bitter advisor.

“Henry!” Alfredo calls. The king looks to him, and then on to the horse that comes galloping towards them from the road. Atop of the mare is Meg, and she is alone.

She halts beside Matt’s horse and swings down onto the battlefield, then hurries into the king’s waiting arms. “Thank the gods you’re alright, my king,” she sobs. At first, Henry believes she is crying, but when she pulls away, he realises her shudders are those of rage. “Henry, Michael Jones is a fucking traitor! Those men he sent to protect me? They tried to snatch me! I don’t know what they planned; I fled as fast as I could.”

“I know. And I’ll deal with Jones – what’s important now is that you’re safe. You’re unharmed?”

Meg nods, though her grip on Henry’s arms tightens. “I just want to see him punished for what he did to us. I thought he was going to kill you!”

“Almost did, too.” Henry chuckles, but it is half-hearted. He is exhausted and his heart is broken.

“Your Grace!” a gruff voice calls. The king and his companions turn their heads to the voice. Henry releases Meg and reaches for the hilt of his sword.

Two men, two Austur lords, are dragging a prisoner between them. The prisoner has a sack over his head and his hands are bound behind his back, but they are still recognisable. The man is tall, and armour hangs off him, revealing an expensive doublet beneath, the kind that only Free is likely to wear.

Meg gasps and a shaking hand comes to her open mouth. “Oh, god, no…” she whispers. Only Alfredo hears her, and he gently takes her arm to steady her.

The Austur lords, undeterred by the king’s blade, throw their prisoner to his knees before the king, and they drag the sack from his head. Sure enough, Gavin’s bloody and filthy face is exposed. His hair is as wild as one would expect of a recently captured prisoner, sticking out and knotting. His lip is bust, and his eye is swollen and slowly bruising. It seems his own lords have as much love for him as the king does.

“Your Grace,” one of the lords announces, “Gavin Free, Duke of Austur, traitor to your reign and our prisoner. We present him to you.”

Gavin stares at the mud before him rather than meeting eyes with the king or Meg. He doesn’t look angry, or afraid, just simply defeated.

When they bring a blade to the back of his neck, he only shudders at the touch of the cold metal. “Just say the word, Your Grace,” says the lord holding the sword.  
Alfredo tilts Meg’s head towards him and tries to cover her eyes as he whispers, “Don’t look.”

“NO!” she cries at him, shoving him back. She grabs her dress and scurries before Henry, throwing herself into the mud facing him, between him and her husband. She kneels before him, clasping her hands before her chest. “Your Grace,” she says, on the verge of tears. She looks up at the king with wide, doe-like eyes. “Your Grace, I beg of you, spare him. He is a traitor to you and he is a fool, but he is my husband. I love him. Please, for the love you bear me, spare him, and spare me the heartbreak and shame of being married to an executed traitor.”

“Meg…” Gavin groans behind her.

“Shut up!” Meg cries at him, “Just shut up, Gavin! You’ve done enough.”

Henry takes her hands, helps her back to her feet, and wipes her tears away. He pulls her into an embrace, then gestures for the men to step away from the disgraced duke.

Meg pulls away from the king and sinks before her husband. She holds him and kisses his cheek and strokes her hand through his hair tenderly. “You’re an idiot,” she sobs, then turns to the king. “Thank you, Henry, for your mercy.”

Henry tips his head to her, then his gaze turns hard as he moves on to Gavin. “You’re lucky, Free. Your wife has saved you; she won’t do it again. Bragg, Diaz, get him on his feet. I want him locked at Highkeep Castle until this war is over. Meg, until then, Whiteport and Austur are yours to command. I trust your loyalty and judgement entirely.”

Michael glares at Jeremy from his throne. Despite his arms remaining tied behind his back, Jeremy kicks his legs up on the seat before him and leans back. He glances around the hall and spots a young serving boy. “Hey! You!” Jeremy shouts to him, “This place got any decent ale? I’ll take a tankard of your best.”

The servant looks to his true lord, Michael, with wide, nervous eyes. Michael’s lips pull back to bare his teeth in frustration, but he nods to the boy, who scurries from the room quickly.

Michael’s furious gaze snaps back to Jeremy. “What game do you think you’re playing?”

Jeremy shrugs. “I’m a guest, aren’t I? I’m just enjoying all Verun Castle has to offer before my stay is over.”

“I never called you a guest, Dooley.”

“Well, you don’t have the guts to kill me, so here we are.” Jeremy grunts and adjusts in his seat as he tries to get comfortable. “Mind freeing me, Jones?”

“Like hell,” Michael spits.

Jeremy laughs, tipping his head back as he does. “Oh, come on now. You’ve taken my weapons and my horse – what exactly do you think I’ll do? Take down you and your entire castle and walk back to Norte? If you’re worried about that, your defences must not be as great as I assumed.”

Michael seethes silently, but nods to another servant. Jeremy sighs as his arms are freed from their binds. He stretches them out, rolls his shoulders and slumps back into his seat. “Ah. Much better.”

“You’re insufferable, Dooley.”

Jeremy grins. “We’re equals, are we not?” The serving boy re-enters the courtroom and hands a tankard of ale to Jeremy, who gives a quick thanks. The serving boy bows to Michael and retreats.

Jeremy gives a soft: “Aaah,” as he sips at his beverage. He then raises it towards Michael. “Not bad,” he commends. “Sureon, right? Tastes like some of the crop they have by the south-western coast.” He chugs half-way through his drink, then belches in Michael’s direction. “Good stuff,” he says with a smirk.

Michael shakes his head slowly, never taking his eyes from Jeremy. “I hate you,” he growls, “More than I hate Gavin Free right now.”

“Oof. Well, I suppose that’s not so bad, considering you tried to save him. I think you’ve got a soft spot for him. So, Jonesie, why am I here?”

Michael’s eyes narrow. “I need you to write to your wife.”

“Gladly,” Jeremy chuckles.

“We need you Dooleys kingmaking again, and we need to make damn sure you make the _right_ king. Tell her to march the rest of your forces down to fight for the true king Geoffrey.”

“If you want me to fight with you, why the hell did you destroy half of my forces?”

“You were overmighty.”

“I’m flattered, but fuck you; those were good men.”

Michael shrugs. “And so were Gavin’s, even if the moron couldn’t command them if his life depended on it.”

“It did,” Jeremy comments. “So now he’s probably dead, Austur is back under Mortimer control, and it’s you and an absentee king against the world. And you want me to join you on this suicide mission? _And_ drag Kat into it?”

“Mortimer, Austur and Sureon are weakened.”

“ _I’m_ weakened!”

“And yet, if you wanted to, you could still command enough men to take Austur and maybe even Sureon all on your own. Add my men, and the crownlands are nothing on top of that. This war could be over before Geoffrey even sets foot in Acheon.”

“You overestimate me,” Jeremy says, “And I won’t turn my men on Matt Bragg.”

“Alternatively, I can have you killed.”

Jeremy bellows with laughter. “Go ahead. You know as well as I do that if you do that, Kat will lay waste to everything you hold dear, and you don’t have the strength to stop her. That is, unless you can escape the kingdom, forfeit your lands and title and allow the king to install a successor in your place. You’re fucked, Michael, and you know it.”

Michael glares and grits his teeth. Then, he growls and storms from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Throw him in the fucking dungeon! And prepare for a siege!”

Trevor is at the ship’s bow within seconds of land being declared sighted. On the horizon, he sees the silhouette of a land he had dreamed about for so long. Simultaneously his heart flips and his stomach drops as the prospects of going home and fighting for his father’s title become blindingly real.

“If Gavin Free saw the way you look at his land as if it’s a feast before a poor urchin, he might have some choice words for you, Trevor.” The king comes to his side and places a tender hand on his shoulder. “Your enthusiasm is admirable though.”

“I’ve never seen Austur. Even if I had, I can barely remember Sureon, let alone anywhere else. Austur is the closest thing I’ve seen to my home in fifteen years.”

Geoffrey chuckles. “If you want to see your home, you’re looking in the wrong direction.” He takes Trevor under his wing and points to a well-built area. “That’s Whiteport over there, but if you look way over there, and you may have to squint to see it,” his hand drifts southward along the coast and back over the land, “See right back there? You can see the first few mountains in the Protega range. Those ones are in Austur’s territory, but were you to follow them along, you’d quickly find yourself past Sureon’s borders.”

“And we could follow them all the way to Solpeak,” Trevor adds with a longing sigh. “Do you know if my parents’ bodies were interred in the family crypts?”

“Who’s to say?” Geoffrey says. “You should have asked your brother. I wouldn’t know, but in truth, I doubt it Trevor. If Mortimer had a shred of honour, your parents would have survived that day as captives at worst. I can’t see Mortimer honouring those in death that he couldn’t even respect in life.”

“When I take my home back, that’ll be the first thing I do.”

The old king pats his shoulder. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Trevor. Come on, lets prepare for landing.”

Geoffrey steps away from the bow, but Trevor doesn’t follow. He hovers a few moments longer, taking in the unfamiliar continent that he has dreamed of since his exile. But then he pauses, and his smile fades. “Geoff… Geoffrey!” he calls.

The king rounds. “What?”

“They’re closing the port!”

Geoffrey runs back to the bow and stares out to land. Trevor isn’t wrong – Whiteport is closing its gates to them. “Fuck… Whiteport’s fallen to Mortimer…”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing we can do – we can’t take the city by ship, and soon enough they’ll start shooting.” The king rounds and then bellows at the crew: “Turn this ship around now! Retreat!”

“Back to Mareon?!” Trevor asks.

Geoffrey ignores him and continues shouting instructions over the crew, who now scramble to steer the ship away from Whiteport. Jack clambers up from below deck, listens to the king, and immediately throws himself to work aiding the crew wherever he can.

Trevor stumbles as the ship lurches south. “Wait!” he calls, though Geoffrey’s shouting drowns him out. He grabs the king and cries again, “Wait, wait!”

“Not now, Collins. Get below deck where it’s safe,” Geoffrey commands.

“Your Grace, if we turn back now, we’ll never get another opportunity. We will die exiles.”

“I’m not hearing any better ideas.”

Trevor scowls. “Then how about this? Sail the ships along the south coast until we reach the great Amplia river. We take Antigua Bay and sail inland to Giasos. Once we have control of those cities, we control entry into Sureon from the east – Mortimer’s army won’t be able to reach us. Then we take Solpeak and any nobles loyal to your cause can join us there.”

The king shakes his head. “We are not cut out for naval warfare against any city, and Solpeak has fallen only once in its history. It is far too risky.”

“I don’t want to take any of them by force, Geoffrey. I’m a Collins, and if Sureon remembers my father, and they want his rightful heir restored to rule them, they will open their gates for me.”

“That’s a lot of faith to put in a name, Trevor,” the king says.

Trevor nods with averted eyes. “I know, but for a long time, it’s all I had. Now it’s our only hope – at least let me try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a map which would have really helped with Geoff and Trevor's explainations of the geography at the end there, but for the life of me I can't figure out how to upload it, so hopefully the descriptions make enough sense on their own (I'm so sorry if not, but it doesn't matter too much).


	21. Update Regarding Recent Events

For those who are unaware what has gone on in the AH community over the past 48 hours, please read Ryan Haywood's official statement found on his twitter. By the time you read this, there may also be an official statement from AH/RT. Essentially, Ryan has made some significant personal mistakes and will be leaving RT. My heart goes out to Ryan's family and the victims of these events.

It feels selfish of me to now turn my attention to how this affects me personally, but I think writing it down will be therapeutic for me and maybe people will want an update on the future of my fics. I adore fanfic writing. I've written AH fanfic for years. I'm as heartbroken about this as many others are in the community. I think we as a community need time to heal and process what has happened, and for the time being, this community doesn't need my silly little stories pretending everything is fine or as it was.

I think Hollow Crown needs to come to an end. It hurts - of my three fics, I considered this one to be my favourite. It's the one I had the most thought-out plan for, it's the one that I actually knew where I wanted to take it and how the characters would grow, and I absolutely loved actually being able to stick to a plan for once. It was like my own little personal writing challenge overcome, and I was proud of it. This is my least popular fic, but I adored it and carried on anyway. But I don't see a way for it to continue. Ryan's character's role is obviously vital to the plot. I can't edit him out, I can't suddenly kill him and I can't change the name and physical description. I would know, just as well as those who were reading before the change, that the character was Ryan, and I cannot in clear conscience continue to include Ryan in my writing.

In truth, I don't know whether it is right to delete the fic and pretend it never happened or keep it up as discontinued. I think I'll make that decision in the future. If anyone wants to save it, go ahead, but please do not distribute it either with or without credit. If anyone wants to know how it would have ended, message me on Tumblr or ask me in the comments. I'm proud of the story I have and would have told. I have a lot of scenes that would have appeared in the future already written. It's a shame I'll never get to share them. But there goes me being selfish about this whole situation.

As for my two other works, Red as the Dawn and Just a Simple Hybrid AU Fanfic, I'd like to continue with them, when it is appropriate to do so. I will of course need to decide how to deal with Ryan's character, but as he is not essential to the plot in either, I believe the continuation of these stories is doable, and I'd like to continue the joy of writing and sharing them. I think I have two options: rewrite the stories to remove Ryan's character, or kill him off at the next possible opportunity. I think I'm leaning towards rewriting. As I sit here and think about it, there's a lot of scenes where Ryan can be easily replaced. Particularly by Matt, now I think about it. Weird. Anyway, if I kill him off, he will still be present for almost 50k words of RatD alone. That's a lot for people who are hurt by this situation to slog through. I should probably rewrite. Eventually. When I'm ready to continue.

If it isn't already obvious, I'm just sat here at my laptop tapping out my thoughts as I come to terms with all this. I may just be typing into the void, but it helps me. I would completely understand if readers have temporarily or permanently left the AH fandom. I don't want to, but maybe I'll have to. Ryan's statement came about an hour ago, and it's now midnight where I am, and I have a meeting in the morning. Tomorrow will be a fun day.

Anyway, I guess that's my thoughts for now. Thank you to anyone who took the time to read or kudos or comment on my historical drabble. I loved it, and it breaks my heart to end it here, but as stated above, I cannot in good conscience carry on with it. Maybe one day when all of this is almost forgotten I can rewrite and give Ryan's character to somebody else or make it an OC, but maybe that's just me being optimistic.

Best wishes and all my love to this community. It'll be a tough few days/weeks/months ahead of us but I'm sure the community will pull through.  
\- ShyAFWriter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 14/10/2020:
> 
> The Mad King has been renamed. If anybody is interested in the historical inspirations for the name, my reasoning for the name picked is as follows:
> 
> Most characters or their plotlines in this fic are based on 1/2/3 real-life historical people or their lives. For the Mad King's character, his descent into paranoia and madness was inspired by the English kings Henry VII and Henry VIII (the latter is that famous petulant man-child of a king who never learned how to treat women and beheaded two of his wives. That part of his legacy was not the inspiration for the character but was apparently very on the nose as it turned out). Those two kings were so paranoid as their house was so new to the throne after the former won it from the previous reigning house, the house of York (from which the inspirations for Geoff, Trevor and Alfredo's characters' plotlines can be found). Another English king, Henry VI, was also actually referred to as the Mad King, although that was because the poor man actually suffered from bouts of insanity rather than being a tyrant. His poor kingship led to him being overthrown by the house of York and eventually murdere... uh, "died of melancholy".
> 
> The surname came from a book that I own called 'The Greatest Traitor' (about another historical figure who is actually really interesting). Mortimer is the surname of both the author and the subject of that book. I wasn't going to be that petty about it, but fuck it, after watching Jack and Michael, I'm beyond being polite about this whole situation. RH is the greatest traitor to this community and he can fuck right off.


	22. What Would Have Happened?

Most of the overall plot has been set in stone in my head pretty much since I posted the first chapter of this fic. However, it of course would have been subject to change as I wrote it out, but as it stands, this is what would have happened (with some bonus pre-written scenes):

(Btw for this explanation, He Who Should Be Ashamed (as I've seen him referred to as)'s character will be referred to as ‘the king’. Feel free to instead envisage an old king with a long white beard and a large belly, or whatever the stereotypical king image is to you. Make it comical if it helps.)

After the battle, Meg, Matt, Alfredo and the king are in Whiteport castle. Meg has been installed as ruler of Austur in Gavin’s absence. They see the Ramsey fleet in the distance, but before the fleet is close enough to attack, it changes course and sails south. The king assumes correctly that Trevor is trying to reach a base of support in Sureon. He commands Matt to ride south with his army as quickly as possible and secure Solpeak for him. Alfredo volunteers to go with Matt, but the king demands that he stays by his side and far from Sureon.

Geoff and Trevor land in Sureon in a city called Antigua Bay, which controls the port connecting the sea to the largest river within Sureon’s borders. The mayor of the city recognises Trevor as his father’s son and rightful heir to the duchy, and Geoff as rightful king. He surrenders the city to them and allows the fleet to sail upriver to the next great city that controls the largest bridge over the river: Giasos. Trevor’s plan is that if they can capture both cities, they control the great river which acts as a natural defence against any invading force from Austur – where they correctly assume Matt and his army were.

However, Matt had moved his army fast, and they had crossed the river before Geoff and Trevor had arrived in Giasos. He reaches Solpeak safely and sets about consolidating his rule there and commands his army to prepare for an oncoming siege.

Meanwhile, the king and Alfredo, as well as the king’s remaining army, return to Wynrun to secure the capital. Meg remains in Austur to ensure it remains loyal, but does later arrive in the capital to bargain for Gavin’s release.

In Giasos, Trevor and Geoff learn that Matt has evaded them and locked down Solpeak. Rather than immediately march on the city and induce a siege that could lead to the deaths of innocent civilians, who Trevor feels a strong sense of responsibility towards, they consolidate their power in Giasos and send word to loyal followers that the true king has returned and is waiting to strike in the south first. Trevor writes a letter intended for Alfredo, but Geoff intercepts and destroys it and tells Trevor to wait before contacting his brother, reasoning that: ‘Alfredo is close to the false king and will be kept under a close watch. A letter could endanger his life.’

One of those who does receive a letter from Geoff is Michael. Michael decides that his best chances of survival and victory would be to run to Geoff’s side. He hurries to prepare a small fleet to ferry himself, Lindsay, Jeremy and as many men as possible to Giasos before Kat arrives to liberate Jeremy. Essentially, he abandons his duchy, but he knows that if Geoff loses the war, he will lose his duchy and likely his life anyway, and if Geoff wins, he is sure to be restored.

In Solpeak (several days later), rumours that Trevor is alive and approaching with an army gain traction among the general populace. Many of the elder citizens remember living under Trevor’s father and still feel a sense of loyalty to the Collins house. Many younger citizens have also been raised believing that the bad king and the evil Bragg lord (Matt’s father, and then by extension Matt) murdered a child and kidnapped another. Additionally, there is panic that war could be brought to their doorstep, and the presence of Matt’s army does not calm the people. A popular revolt begins, and while Matt’s forces initially attempt to subdue the revolt, it only adds fuel to the fire. Many of his men flee the rioting mob. Many others join it. Solpeak castle is barred from the rest of the city, but not before most of Matt’s household flee for their lives, leaving their duke stranded and almost defenceless inside. However, Matt is able to send a messenger to Wynrun begging for help as soon as possible.

The messenger rode hard and arrived at the royal court before sunset. The king is with his council when the news arrives, and he orders his men to be prepared to march at dawn. Alfredo argues that this is too long, but the king disagrees. Alfredo asks if he should lead the men into Sureon the next day to avoid the king putting himself in unnecessary danger. The king immediately and angrily rejects the proposition and officially orders Alfredo to stay away from Sureon. Alfredo has no choice but to agree, but later that night has a change of heart when he again realises that Matt may not survive the night. He sneaks into the courtyard, escapes Wynrun on horseback and rides for Solpeak under the cover of night.

He arrives in the early hours of the morning and finds the mob attempting to break through the castle gates, and receiving very little resistance from within the castle. The following scene takes place:

Alfredo pulls the reigns hard before he hits the rioting mob. The mare rears, and when her hooves crash down onto the street below Alfredo tears the hood from his head and bellows over the crowd: “STOP!”

Miraculously, it seems to work. The people halt at the presence of somebody who is evidently wealthy. Perhaps at first they thought it was somebody from Matt’s court, somebody they could take their frustration out on. But the crowd stay put, staring at the exhausted stranger’s face.

Alfredo’s heart hammers in his chest and in his ears. He has never addressed a crowd before, not like this. Never from any position of authority. He wasn’t born to lead anybody, and he wasn’t raised to command the people. The citizens of Solpeak look to him now all the same. They recognise him.

“I am the natural son of the late Duke Collins of Sureon,” he announces to the crowd, “And I am here to tell you that my father is dead! That my brother is dead! That the old King Geoffrey is dead! That there is no one left for Solpeak other than Matthew Bragg! Your riots are in vain; you have been misled by a pretender! If you won’t listen to them,” Alfredo gestures to the castle, then to himself and bellows: “Listen to me!”

The crowd roars its disagreement. Once again, the citizens attempt to storm the gates of the castle, and a few try to make a grab for Alfredo. He shouts again to try to calm the crowd, but they drown him out, and ultimately he is forced to turn his horse and flee before he is dragged into any rebellion.

Alfredo’s back-up plan takes him out of the city and down to the riverside. He gallops along its bank searching for the spot that he remembered from childhood, and when he finds it he dismounts, ties his horse to a mast close by and hurries through the secret passage.

It is long and dark and damp, and Alfredo relies solely on his sense of touch to get him through the long stone corridor and then up the seemingly endless spiral stairs. But eventually, he hits a wooden door, and he finds the handle and steps out into the castle.

It appears empty – most of the servants had probably fled at the sight of the rebellion, or joined it. Alfredo draws his hood back up and rushes to the grand bedroom where his father had slept and where he assumes Matt has taken up residence.

He isn’t wrong – Alfredo finds Matt pacing in the presence chamber outside the great bedroom. Matt screams slightly when the door opens, then sighs and almost bursts into tears of relief when Alfredo throws his hood back. “Oh, oh sweet mercy, Alfredo!”

“What the hell are you still doing here?!” Alfredo demands.

“They’ve surrounded the castle – I don’t know how to get out. How did you even get in?”

Alfredo finds Matt’s closet and begins quickly sorting through the clothes. “The passage to the river. Here, throw this on.” Alfredo tosses a dull riding cloak at Matt.

Matt fumbles as he catches it and throws it around his shoulders. “What passage?”

“The passage near the kitchens, takes you down below the city and out to the river bank. You didn’t know about it?” Alfredo asks as he peeks out of the window at the roaring crowds below. He tuts and makes his way to the door again. “Come on.”

“How do you know about it?!” Matt asks as he follows.

“I was raised here, remember? I know every nook and cranny of this place. You haven’t changed it much.”

“…Right,” Matt murmurs. He hurries on after Alfredo through half of the castle, until they come to an old wooden door close to the food storage. Matt knew the door; he assumed it was further storage, or a servant’s passage or something otherwise unremarkable. Yet when Alfredo throws the door open, he reveals a stone staircase that quickly spirals down into utter darkness.

Alfredo wastes no time in rushing into the darkness, only halting when he realises nobody follows him. He peaks back at Matt and finds the duke staring at the castle gates, at the crowd demanding his head.

“Matt, come on! While we can still escape!” Alfredo hisses.

Alfredo’s words barely process. Matt watches his own people, the people he thought he had ruled fairly, tearing at his home’s defences. Previously, within his rooms, he had heard their fierce chants: “RAMSEY! COLLINS!” Over and over they would call for their dead rulers. Now, though, the chant has changed.

“RAMSEY! COLLINS! DIAZ!”

The people of Solpeak call for the bastard, the child who fled them and never returned, over Matt. They howl for anybody of the old regime. They do not want the Braggs. They do not want the Mortimers. These people never accepted Matt’s father, and they will never accept Matt. Not while any alternative is alive.

“MATT! Do you want them to hang you from the walls?! Come on, let’s go!”

Matt’s face steels and he follows Alfredo into the passage, slamming the door behind them as he goes. He follows the stairs and Alfredo down, down, down until they are far beneath the castle.

When the descent ends, Matt sees a very faint, very distant light at the end of a long tunnel. Alfredo has no time for Matt’s hesitation, and grabs his wrists and sprints through the passage.

It ends at the riverbank, where a grey horse waits for the two of them. Alfredo frees her, throws the reigns over her neck and throws himself into the saddle. “Get on, Matt,” Alfredo commands, offering a hand down to him.

Matt hates everything about this. Not only has he lost his home to rioters, but the man they cry for now casts his shadow over Matt. He sits atop a horse wearing a gold and red cloak as finely made as if it were the king’s own – it is a sign that he is favoured by the king. It is in stark contrast to the dull cloak that Alfredo had picked out personally for Matt. Worse, while Matt has now proven himself to be a coward in hiding from his own people, Alfredo’s face betrays no sign of fear.

A thought crosses Matt’s mind. Could all of this be some elaborate scheme to usurp his duchy for the Collins family once more? Alfredo never expressed any interest in the duchy, but he has no other plan. He doesn’t want to be gifted land, and he expressed no intention to marry into an inheritance either. Maybe this was the plan all along. Perhaps Alfredo even financed the revolt in Solpeak. Perhaps he intends to drag Matt from Sureon in disgrace and return in glory to declare himself as duke. The imagery is already here and Alfredo could easily do it. The people would accept him with open arms; he would be invested as duke within the week.

No. It’s a stupid idea, Matt thinks, an invasive idea. This is still the poor, shy, quiet bastard boy that Matt was raised with. Alfredo is a friend. He takes his hand and lifts himself onto the saddle behind Alfredo.

“Hold on,” Alfredo warns him, “I’m not slowing down until we’re safe.”

They arrive back in the capital shortly before dinner. Alfredo warns Matt not to tell the king he went to Sureon, then goes to the kitchens, collects food and retreats into his room to sleep. Matt meets with the king to let him know he is safe. After a tearful reunion, Matt lies and tells the king that he escaped alone.

The next morning, Matt is summoned back to the king’s presence chamber. He has received a report from a castle in Sureon that defends one of the few safe passages through the mountain range. It claims that Matt did not pass through alone. Matt admits that he lied, and the king begins to question him. Under the pressure of the interrogation, Matt admits to his brief doubts about Alfredo during his rescue. The king orders that Alfredo’s rooms be searched and any servants who have access to his rooms be questioned. The investigations return nothing, but the king is still deeply disturbed by Alfredo’s now repeated disobedience since discovering Trevor lives.

Two days after Matt escaped Solpeak, Trevor and Geoff arrive and claim the city. Many of Sureon’s lesser lords who had previously fought alongside Matt against Gavin now rush to meet Trevor and pledge fealty to him and the old king.

Geoff suggests that Trevor should speak with the people of the city who restored him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he spends hours alone in thought pacing around the castle grounds. He doesn’t remember the castle well. He had hoped he would finally feel like he had returned home. Instead, despite the citizens of the city welcoming him back with open arms, he feels somewhat like an imposter in a foreign country. Eventually he finds the crypts and discovers, as Geoff had predicted, that his parents do not have graves, but a small memorial is under construction. He is confused at first, but asks a servant about it later and discovers that Matt had paid for it while he was in Solpeak to be instated as duke.

Two days later, Michael arrives in Solpeak with Jeremy. Geoff welcomes Jeremy as a guest rather than a hostage, though he does ensure that Jeremy is unable to leave. Geoff publically invests Trevor as duke before the two great dukes, most of Sureon’s nobility and a crowd of citizens. They then return to the castle and continue to plan the war. Jeremy reluctantly offers his forces to Geoff to avoid aligning Kat with the weaker side, though he is heartbroken to turn on Matt. During his time in Solpeak, Jeremy gets on surprisingly well with Trevor.

In the weeks that follow, Alfredo begins to receive letters from Trevor (sent without Geoff’s knowledge) through a spy. He reads and burns the first two, but responds from then on. In the first letter he replies to, Trevor asks him why he saved Matt’s life and lied to the people about Trevor’s survival, before he commands him (politely) to return to his side. Alfredo responds to Trevor the exact same way he responded to Matt – as he is not technically southern, Trevor has no real authority over him. He does begin to offer information to Trevor, most of which is accurate (lies are to give Matt and the king a fighting chance at survival). The next few letters practically beg Alfredo to return to him, and one attempts to command him again, this time as the head of their house. Again, Alfredo ignores the command.

This part of the plot is a little less thought out as it was a fair ways away, but essentially the war is in full swing at this point. Battles take place across the kingdom, but the major players are not always present. Several southern Austur lords repeatedly attack Sureon’s eastern borders, but make very little progress. A power vacuum in Veshire leads to a small civil war between those who are loyal to the Joneses and some of Michael’s most powerful barons who attempt to take his place. Initially, Norte’s forces invade northern Veshire until Kat receives a letter from Jeremy telling her that he is safe and requesting that she retreat back to Jorven.

The king mostly hides away in Wynrun for much of the war, and he holds Alfredo and Matt close, both for their safety and to keep an eye on both of them as his paranoia grows. He does however lead the defence of the castle mentioned earlier that defends the passage through the mountains between the crownlands and Sureon. During the battle, the following two (very short, very incomplete, very unedited) scenes would have taken place:

Across the battlefield, on a great cantering horse, the opposing commander rides. He bellows to his men in encouragement, and occasionally even rides close to cut down one of the king’s men himself. The man sits tall, with Collins colours of burgundy and yellow draped around his horse.

Alfredo pulls his reigns hard. His horse rears and he barely clutches on tight enough to avoid being thrown off. When she calms, Alfredo shouts without thinking: “TREVOR!”

“Kill him!” Matt screams. Trevor glances to Matt, then back at Alfredo. Despite being a grown man, despite being a duke fighting for his birthright in the middle of a battlefield, he looks at Alfredo with wide, frightened eyes. It is the same look that he would have when they were children when Trevor was frightened by something trivial like an unruly warhorse. Like when they were children, he watches Alfredo not because he is afraid of him, but for reassurance.

But back then, Alfredo’s reaction was easy. Even if he was afraid too, he would smile at his brother, tell him everything is fine. Sometimes he would clasp Trevor’s small hand in his own or pull Trevor up beneath his arm while Trevor clung to him, as if Alfredo could shield Trevor from the world with nothing but his cloak. He wishes he could do something so simple now, and perhaps bundle his little brother away from the battle to safety.

Matt cries again with a hoarse voice: “ALFREDO, KILL HIM!”

Trevor shakes his head softly as he crawls back away from his brother. He makes no noise, but mouths his plea: ‘Please Fredo.’

Matt grunts as he pulls himself up from the mud, using his sword for support. The rain still pours down around him, and his ragged hair sticks to his face and makes him look wild and dishevelled. “KILL HIM!” he begs.

Alfredo lets Trevor go, but he returns to Matt’s side and continues to fight beside and protect him. Eventually, the castle falls to Geoff and Trevor’s forces, but the king, Matt and Alfredo escape and return to the capital. There, the king’s paranoia grows and grows until it feels as if the whole court is living on the edge of a knife. He signs and then destroys an arrest warrant for Alfredo several times, and even Matt is afraid. By now, Meg is at court to arrange Gavin’s peaceful release. Negotiations were going well until the king hears that reinforcements from Chad and Fiona have landed. He snaps, and the two following scenes take place:

“That’s it!” the king roars, “Kill them! Kill them all! Every traitor we have locked up – I want them all dead!”

“Your Grace,” Alfredo protests, “I don’t think that’s the best move. You have a lot of noblemen locked up. A duke…”

“Traitors all the same! I want them dead! I want their blood to soak into the land they betrayed!”

“Your Grace, see reason; you can’t just kill a duke!” Alfredo shouts.

The king rounds on him. He is silent, even in his footsteps as he approaches the bastard, but that deadly silence is worse than any shout or bellow. Alfredo ducks his eyes and bows his head and tries to step away, only for two guards behind him to step forward and block any retreat.

The king halts toe-to-toe with his ward, grabs Alfredo’s jaw and forces eye contact. Through gritted teeth he breathes, “And who are you to command me? You, the bastard son of a _Collins_? Just look at your father, Diaz, and I think you’ll find that, yes, I _can_ ‘just kill a duke’. Killing a duke bought me my crown. Killing another will secure it for me. So mark my words, _bastard_ , by sundown Gavin Free will be dead, and if I hear you speak out of turn again, you’ll join him. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“No! No! Sire!” Meg makes a grab for the king. He shrugs her off and continues as if she had made no noise. “Your Grace,” she wails. “Not Gavin. Spare Gavin! Your Grace, please don’t do this!”

The king is deaf to her protests. An awed and devastated duchess collapses to her knees in defeat and anguish, clutching tight to her necklace – a gift from Gavin shortly after the two had met. Her head falls as she sobs.

Alfredo is on thin ice already, he knows that, but he won’t let Meg be left in a heap of tears on the palace floor while a messenger rises to Highkeep Castle with her lover’s signed death warrant. He kneels at her side, takes her arm and supports her back. “Stand up,” he murmurs to her.

She makes no attempt to. Instead she grabs him and meets his eyes. With a quivering lip she implores him, “Stop him, Alfredo! Please. Please, I will do anything. Save Gavin!”

“I can’t,” Alfredo whispers, “He won’t listen to me.”

“Make him listen! Alfredo, _please!_ ”

He shakes his head. “He threatened my life. He’s not taking counsel, least of all from me. He’s taking it as if we are trying to command him – he’s on the brink of calling it treason.”

“Then go get him! You saved Matt Bragg – save Gavin! Take him to King Geoffrey and your brother, I don’t care anymore! Please, just… Please, please, save him!”

“I can’t, Meg. I just… I can’t. He’s in Highkeep. Even if I could, he’ll kill us both before I have the chance. I’m sorry.”

She wails as if she is in pain and falls against Alfredo’s shoulder. “Gods, no… Alfredo… Oh, gods, Gavin was right. He was right all along, and I…” She howls in her anguish. “Gavin!”

Fortunately, some of the men provided by Fiona are experienced mercenaries. They make their way to Highkeep Castle, where Gavin has been imprisoned, and they manage to free him and escape before his signed death warrant arrives. He heads straight to Geoff.

About a week after, Geoff’s forces arrive outside Wynrun, and to avoid civilian death, he demands that his opponent meet him in battle outside the city walls. The king, terrified for his life, refuses, and hopes that Geoff won’t attack a city filled with innocents.

He is wrong, though Geoff gives the order to avoid as many civilian casualties as possible. His men attack the city walls, and the king’s forces are sent out to defend both the city walls and the central palace. The king asks Alfredo to stay behind as his final line of defence.

Alfredo watches the battle from the window while the king sinks into paranoia-induced madness behind him. Alfredo knows better than to disturb him in such a precarious mood, until the king begins to demand updates on the battle. When Alfredo tells him he doesn’t know, the king begins to question Alfredo’s loyalty to him. At first insistent in his loyalty, Alfredo finally admits that he doesn’t know who he wants to win. If the king wins, he will certainly lose his only surviving family member, but if Geoff wins, he could lose everyone else. The king thanks him for his honesty, then draws his sword and attempts to kill Alfredo.

He dodges the first swing, and the king keeps trying. Alfredo refuses to draw his blade on the king he swore to protect, but is eventually forced to do so to deflect a hit when the king pins him down. Even still, he makes no attempt to harm the king, only to block and deflect attacks. The king torments him with details of his father’s death and swears he should have killed him when he was brought cowering before him as a child. Eventually, Alfredo disarms him, tells the king to snap out of it and tries to leave and find help. The king initially seems to calm down, but the moment Alfredo turns his back the king grabs him and attempts to break his neck. Alfredo escapes, and the king draws a dagger. After a short struggle, Alfredo kills the king in self-defence.

A few minutes later, Larry runs into the room to warn the king that the battle is turning. He finds Alfredo with the body. Alfredo remorsefully confesses to killing the king without hesitation. Larry is horrified, tells Alfredo that he had better hope his brother comes for him, and has him arrested for treason.

News of the king’s death spreads, and eventually, his forces surrender. Geoff rides into his capital in triumph, with Trevor, Michael, Gavin and Jeremy at his side.

Now, I’m going to stop my explanation here. This isn’t the end of the story – not by a long shot. I planned this story in thirds: pre-war, the war, and post-war. This is the end of the second third. And now, his character is dead. With an entire third to go. Better still, it’s not some cheap kill-off. This death was planned from the get go and was always planned to be the first major death. It has meaning. And actually, looking ahead, that character is very rarely mentioned by name again. Obviously his character’s death has a significant impact on the plot, but I can actually easily get away with continuing writing from here with hardly any reference to him. His title as ‘king’ or ‘mad king’ will be named occasionally, but not him. Sure, it’ll be a bit strange for the characters to suddenly never utter his name again, but it’s an opportunity for me to take this fic to a proper end.

I will completely understand if some of my prior readers no longer wish to follow this fic. Now more than ever I will completely understand if you unsub or never click onto this fic again. Also, if the only plotline you cared for was the battle for the throne, this is your end point. But this was my favourite fic, and I’d like to salvage it as best I can, for me if no one else. It may take time for me to continue it – my two other fics will probably continue before this one does – but I’d like to return to Acheon eventually. There’s so much left I’d love to explore. Geoff on his throne, Matt’s future, Alfredo and Trevor’s reunion, Gavin and Meg’s relationship. The war has been won, but who has really gained from it? Who is actually happy with how it ended? How will all the characters settle under Geoff’s leadership? Will they at all?

I’ll probably go through and change the character’s name too and make it an OC for the benefit of future readers. Let’s be real, I don’t write brilliant fictionalised versions of the AH cast, and nor do I try to. If anything, I write OCs with the same name, same physical description, and vaguely similar base personalities. It helps that every fic of mine is in a completely foreign alternate universe. If I changed all the names and gave the fic to fans who had never read my work before, people would probably have a hard time putting many of the AH personalities to the characters that are supposedly based on them. It’s more like I’m writing a film where the characters are intended to be played by the AH cast, rather than it actually being them. So unless you knew that character was him beforehand, making an OC of it will probably make this fic a lot more new-reader and maybe even old-reader friendly.

So yeah, this is me formally saying fuck that cunt, this is my story and I won’t let him ruin it. I take back what I said in my update about abandoning this work – I’m taking this to the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, unrelated to this fic, my two other works have been rewritten and are now safe to read.


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